


Ethical Testing

by starsoverhead



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe, Innuendo, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Memory Loss, Mild Gore, Non-Explicit Sex, Threats, animal experimentation, coarse language, slightly explicit violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-10 20:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsoverhead/pseuds/starsoverhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer Reid is a respected researcher for a government medical installation, trying to find a way to help sufferers of PTSD.  It's pure accident that he finds that his lab rats aren't the only experimental subject.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Throughout this work, there will be mentions of medical torture and violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally finished!
> 
> Throughout this work, you'll find mentions of medical torture, violence, and some gore. I don't think it's very explicit - it's about like you'll find on the show, as far as I can tell. Do consider yourself warned.

Coming home was a process.  First, he performed the usual ritual at the door:  locks locked from ceiling to floor, alarm set to the correct mode, briefcase left below the table, keys beside the lamp.  Then he could go through the second step of loosening his tie, taking off his blazer, and letting them rest over the back of one of the chairs that he used rarely, if ever.  The third step was turning on some music, which he did with his stereo remote.  The fourth step was optional and was usually an indulgence in times where the stress had become so bad that he’d ended up with a headache between his temples that no painkiller could touch.  
  
Now was one of those times.  
  
The tension across his shoulders was like a bowstring, leaving him aching like the proverbial archer’s elbow after remaining at the ready for far too long.  He rolled one and then the other before pouring one of his prized crystal tumblers full of the scotch that he likely never should have bought.  It was an unnecessary expense, he usually told himself, but times like this always told him otherwise.  
  
Working with others was never an activity he enjoyed.  He had a certain way he liked to do things and it involved a certain amount of subtlety and circumspection.  If the group he’d been assigned had simply done what they were supposed to do, all of the troubles of the last days would not have happened.  But that was then and this was now, and he didn’t have to deal with them anymore.  That realisation brought a satisfaction, and a smile, that he hadn’t expected.  
  
He tipped the tumbler to his lips and felt the burn of alcohol trace a line along his tongue, down his throat, and further into his stomach - a comfortable feeling that started unwinding the knots along his shoulders.  The thought of his shoulders brought daydreams of backrubs and gentle hands on his skin.  It wasn’t the first time he’d had the want for a bit of sympathetic company.  Someone who would always be on his side.  Just having companionship would be a load off his mind.  
  
True, his job was pressing and he was away from home more than he was at home, but he’d never had a problem getting a date.  But what he’d come to notice in himself wasn’t the want for a date as much as it was the mental image of someone to come home to, who understood his work and his loneliness.  Someone he could get to rub his back for him after assignments like this last one.  The daydream was both sweet and seldom indulged in for the simple reason that it was too much of a distraction from the work he’d always felt called to do.  
  
The expensive scotch, he mused, was likely already more companionship than he deserved, and the thought was enough to put a wry smirk on his face as he crossed the room once more.  There were no soft hands to be found, but there was his new favourite chair.  Wide and soft, it was ideal to relax in and he’d even fallen asleep in it more than once, cradled in the overstuffed arms that someone had designed to perfection.  He found himself looking forward to the suede under his palms, his feet bare against the carpet, and a throw eventually over his body as he finally drifted off.  But in one swift second, before he felt that usual warning tingle that accompanied a shift in his immediate environment, he learned that he had made a vital mistake.  
  
There was barely the sound of a footstep before something solid made contact with the back of his head.  The tumbler fell and thankfully didn’t shatter against the carpet though the scotch would leave a stain.  It was odd how that thought was what came to him as he felt himself rushing toward the floor, stunned pain and dizziness keeping him from being able to lift his arms to catch his weight.  
  
There was a heavy boot being stomped against his back with a force that left him breathless with tears in his eyes through sheer reflex.  Before he could even start to fight back, his arms were wrenched behind his back and handcuffs tightened around his wrists.  His blood ran cold.  He’d feared the day this would happen and he’d even made plans for it, but now that it was happening, he was helpless.  
  
“Agent Aaron Hotchner,” a voice growled above and behind him.  “You are being put under arrest for treason.”  
  
—-  
  
“I wish you guys would stop acting like it’s dumbfounding that I listen to Michael Buble, that’s all,” he said, pulling his Yakisoba out of the microwave.  He was lucky to have an hour to spend for lunch, but it never took him the full hour to eat.  It was so much easier just to have one of the noodle bowls and a cold sandwich to go along with it that the combination had become his daily meal.  The topic of conversation, however, had grown a bit too familiar.  
  
“Doctor Reid, it isn’t that you listen to Michael Buble - it’s that you listen to him and dance while you’re working,” said Doctor Vincent, chuckling before licking off her yogurt spoon.  “I don’t know how you don’t spill your sample jars.”  
  
He opened his mouth to retort but had to stop himself before he even said a word, realising - “You know, I don’t either.”  
  
The others in the lunchroom chuckled, but soon their conversation was excluding him as usual.  It didn’t bother him as much as it could have but he would’ve been lying if he denied that it bothered him at all.  Being the outcast was something he was far too used to, and he was tired of just being used to it.  He knew that he was only a contract worker here, but his contract was job security for the next three years.  They didn’t have to act like there was no way to know if he’d be around tomorrow or not.  
  
As soon as his meal was done, he threw away the wrappers from his food and headed back to his lab - a perk of the contract he’d been given.  A lab that was his and his alone, fully equipped, where he could turn on the stereo with the remote that was always in his pocket, letting Michael Buble’s smooth, torch-song voice float through the air and calm his nerves.  Today’s job was a further examination of the effects of his specific chemical agent on the neuropeptides of rats and test for precisely which combination he would need to influence to get his desired reactions.  Yet another thrilling day at the pipettes, measuring by particle and setting up control experiments.  
  
First, though, Spencer went over to the rows of cages housing his rats.  He was sure he was the only person in the facility who felt sorry for the animals he had to test on, but the breakthrough he’d made was important enough that animal testing was simply required.  The blood-brain barrier was difficult to break through until he’d discovered the brilliant two step method that he was currently working with.  
  
“Hey, guys,” he greeted with a smile, watching all of the gleaming black eyes look up at him, whiskers twitching.  “How is everybody?  Time for constitutionals.”  
  
Most people, thinking of lab rats, would imagine white rats with red eyes, but his were black hooded and, to him, adorable.  He went down the line and picked each one up, distributing gentle scratching and treats.  They got a walk through the lab, stopping by the little fridge that was labeled ‘biohazard’, but the real contents?  Rat treats.  
  
Each one had their own tastes and today, Reid sadly reminded himself, was the last day that he could give them their little favours.  Starting tomorrow, their conditions had to be exactly the same except for the drug they were going to be given.  It was only through methodical testing that he’d found that all of them enjoyed chocolate chips.  Those, he could buy a bag of, toss it in the fridge, and make sure everybody got one every day.  Then they wouldn’t be too thrown off by missing their daily treat.  
  
His work had been interesting enough to make the government sit up and take notice before he’d made his fateful theory, but that had been in the university lab at the small college where he’d been teaching.  It was when he’d published his initial proposition that the letter had come.  His idea for the brain’s natural timing of memories and altering, reprogramming, the reaction to them in order to lessen the extreme effects of PTSD was one, they said, that could be very helpful to the soldiers coming home from the altercations in the middle east.  
  
If one soldier could be helped, they had written to him, alongside their grant and contract offer, then it was worth any expense.  The opportunity could simply not be overlooked.  He had informed the people who needed informed and had taken a graceful hiatus from teaching to take advantage of this very generous offer.  
  
Now, with the offer, he’d learned, came backache after backache as it seemed there was just no way to adjust some of the equipment to his long-torsoed height and he had to hunch on a stool or chair that was too tall to reach the lenses that were too short.  He resigned himself to another round of ibuprofen before he went home.  
  
He placed Niffy back into her cage beside Boing and Arthur, giving her a last little scratch before securing the cage door.  The nail was already in the coffin.  Despite the cautions to not get attached to the lab animals, he had.  His soft heart just couldn’t keep from it.  When the first ones had died in the tests to make the blood-brain barrier permeable, he had cried to think that, for all it was necessary, he had caused their deaths.  
  
And that was when he made the decision.  Tomorrow, he would request that someone else observe and record his experiments.  He just couldn’t do it anymore.  Of course, it was one thing to read about the studies where so many creatures had given their lives for vital researches, and he understood his researches were vital - but he just couldn’t deal with this.  He couldn’t deal with watching.  Not anymore.  
  
Feeling like a betrayer, Spencer became Doctor Reid once more, turning to the equipment in the other room after thoroughly washing his hands and began to measure out the dosages he would need for the experiment that started bright and early the next morning.  
  
His stereo, as always, went through Buble’s entire discography three times with him dancing with his chair from time to time before he started to pack up for the night.  His lab coat was hung on its hook beside the door, remote placed to the side, all of the equipment shut down or on standby - and all of the rats in their cages with a camera focused on each.  
  
“G’night, guys,” he sighed, watching his furry assistants.  “Try to stay with me this time.”  Even if it would be impossible for them all to live, he’d at least give them his best wishes, his heart breaking all the while.  Not for the first time did he think he might be in the wrong line of work.  
  
He locked the door behind him and decided that tonight was going to be a carton of ice cream kind of night.  The whole carton.  In one sitting.  It was the closest to self-medication he’d let himself have.  Lactaid, ice cream, and chocolate syrup.  Sounded like dinner to him.


	2. Chapter 2

His morning went as always.  Coffee, some kind of baked thing from the coffee shop.  Today’s choice had been a danish with cherry and cream cheese filling, and it didn’t take much longer than his commute to the lab for his stomach to let him know that was a very bad idea, and to remind him that he needed to start taking the twenty-four hour version of those pills.  Even with his stomach aching, he still made the time to knock on his project director’s door.  It was standing open, practically waiting for him.  
  
“Come in— Ah, Doctor Reid,” the man greeted, eyes smiling through his wire-rim glasses and beneath his salt-and-pepper hair.  “Have a seat - how are the researches going?”  
  
“Very well, actually, Director,” he said with a small smile, coming in to sit in one of the chairs opposite the desk.  “I, um.  I was wondering, though, if it might be possible for me to have an assistant or—”  
  
“Or someone,” Reid was interrupted, “who could check on the rats for you?”  
  
Embarrassed, Spencer nodded, his head slightly ducked.  “Right, I just… um…”  
  
“I’m afraid I can’t give you the answer you’re hoping for,” the man admitted.  “Right now, we don’t have the manpower to give you an assistant.”  
  
“Oh.”  What good mood he’d had evaporated.  ‘I—  I understand.”  
  
But then the director held up a hand.  “But I can tell you this.  I’ll do what I can to help you check.  I have a few free minutes here and there that I can come in and look in on your test for you.  How’s that?”  
  
The thought made Reid smile, flattered by the offer.  “Really?  I— I mean, I don’t want you to have to make time, just on my behalf.”  
  
“I’m sure,” the Director said with a gentle smile.  “We don’t want you to have to be afraid of your own findings.  You know how important this research is to us, Doctor Reid.”  
  
He nodded, full of gratitude.  “I do.  I do — thank you, Director Foyet.  It means a lot to me.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” he was assured, and he hurried on to his lab to start with work, heartened by the results he’d already had.  Today was when the tests had to start, and that meant that starting today, he had to record everything and find something to do in the time he wasn’t recording everything.  That was always the worst - finding a time filler.  Sure, he could read a book, but that would only last ten minutes or so and he had hours to fill.  
  
He readied syringe after syringe of his “step one”, the dosage carefully measured for the weight of each rat, and placed it aside.  It was a thin, clear orange fluid, the colourant added for identification rather than any chemical purpose.  The orange, to Spencer anyway, made it clear that it was an irritant - an agent specifically created to make the blood-brain barrier more permeable for the drug to follow.  
  
What he didn’t like about it was that it seemed to cause itching and, to judge by other reaction, a varying degree of pain in the rats he’d experimented on.  It hadn’t been his first time watching the suffering medicine trials could inflict, but one of the most vivid.  Spencer was more than aware that the serum needed work but they wanted a solid platform for both steps before they went into refinement and, at the moment, the serum was a solid platform.  It would do what they needed it to do.  And while he would’ve preferred to work on it, to make it painless, unfortunately he was the only one who cared for his rats.  
  
But as he slid the last syringe into the labeled slot, he realised just what it was that he could do to fill his time.  He could work on this - make it painless, make it accessible for more people.  Taking away the pain would make it all the more likely that people would use it.  
  
Perfect.  
  
With a smile, he placed the syringes aside and readied his spreadsheets for printing, being one of only a few who still preferred paper to the computer system despite the rising prevalence of tablets.  He had a clipboard and pencil ready as he waited over the printer, the idea firming in his mind, when the sound of the door opening nearly startled him out of his shoes.  
  
“Sorry, Doctor,” came the chuckle.  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”  
  
“Oh, no, no it’s okay, Director,” he said, having caught his breath with a smile.  “I just wasn’t expecting anyone.”  
  
“You didn’t look up when I knocked, so I figured you were … a little off in your own world.  This is one of those few minutes I have open.  Ready to start rounds?”  
  
“Yes!  Yes, I just— the spreadsheets just finished printing, so I’m ready.  Just need to grab a couple things.”  
  
The Director raised an eyebrow.  “Like what?”  
  
“Um.  Chocolate chips, for the rats?”  
  
“Aren’t you afraid that the chemical content of the chocolate could effect the test results?”  
  
“I… already calculated for it, actually…”  
  
Foyet chuckled, squeezing Spencer’s shoulder as he guided him into the cage room.  “That’s just what I expected from you.  Let’s get started.”  
  
—-  
  
Each day gained a rhythm after that first one.  He would come into the lab, having breakfasted on the way, check on the paperwork after the Director checked on the rats, and try not to mourn the ones who didn’t make it.  Every day he gave the surviving number their daily chocolate chip and a gentle bit of cuddling, apologising for what they were having to go through.  
  
“I promise,” he said to Boing, stroking the rat’s black-furred head, “that if I could make sure it didn’t hurt, I would.”  
  
The rat had no idea what he was saying, Spencer knew, but that didn’t stop him from being touched when Boing lifted himself up onto his back feet and touched nose to nose with him.  One small gesture, he thought, in the middle of all of this lab full of sterile white, to prove that maybe he could gain a little forgiveness.  
  
He reluctantly replaced Boing, some of those in cages near his having already given their lives to further research.  The empty cages haunted him as he left the testing room to return to his self-given work.  He’d have to do another round of testing to make sure it was causing less pain, but so far, he thought he’d figured out the worst offender in the mixture.  
  
Besides his visits to the rats, that was what took the most of his time and the weeks went like clockwork.  He came to expect the Director’s regular visits, but as the testing cycle continued, the results seeming obvious, he noticed how those visits became less regular.  He often had to do the morning rounds, but as fewer of the rats were showing ill effects, it wasn’t as hard as he’d expected.  Before long, though, he found himself doing all of the rounds.  It was how it should’ve been all along, he knew, and he’d been spoiled by Director Foyet’s help, but it something about it just felt strange.  He would’ve at least sent word, Reid thought, if he couldn’t help at all.  A note on his lab door, or an email.  Something.  
  
Spencer was sitting at his pipettes, measuring out compounds when he realised the Director was out of his office much more often than he had been before.  Confusing, he thought, but not unusual.  There were always project meetings, and this probably meant that they were bringing another researcher into the lab.  With that thought, he brushed Foyet’s absence off without really worrying - only with a degree of curiosity.  
  
The trials continued and despite his worry, he kept recording each reaction as it came.  The testing cycle couldn’t be cut short despite what most would consider a foregone conclusion, and as more time passed, he was reminded why the protocols had to be followed.  Even the most promising agents of the lot began to show adverse effects until only Boing, out of all of his rats, was alive.  
  
Boing stared back at him as Reid wrestled with his choices.  He’d found that two steps weren’t enough.  Step one made it possible for step two to work, but step two would have to lead to a third step.  They couldn’t locate and alter the required memories with only one chemical, and only the trials could’ve revealed that.  But that meant he had to tell Director Foyet that his work would take more time.  Simple enough except for one detail:  finding the Director.  
  
His absence grew more and more pronounced as time went on and Reid continued what he could of his work, the trials concluded.  Boing now had a place of honour on Spencer’s desk for all his cage was miniscule.  Reid let him out regularly, giving him exercise and attention while he continued to be hale and hardy.  He was an unintrusive research assistant and Spencer got used to his presence either on his shoulder, whuffling into his ear, or sleeping peacefully in a pocket of his lab coat while he ran equations in his head.  
  
Two months and ten days passed before anyone saw a hint of Director Foyet, and even then it had only been in passing.  Doctor Reid had been forced to deliver his official results to an empty office with Boing settled in his pocket, unaware that just after his departure, the Director’s assistant had made a phone call to let the Director know that the report he’d been waiting for had arrived.  It was picked up within fifteen minutes.


	3. Chapter 3

“Doctor Reid.”  
  
“Director!”  Once more, he was nearly jumping out of his skin.  After getting used to the director’s nonpresence, his sudden appearance in the lab was more than unexpected.  “It’s— It’s good to see you again.  Did you get my report?”  
  
Foyet exhaled, leaning against the counter top.  “I did - and it was punctual, as I expected, but I can’t say that I’m glad about your findings.  What was that about needing a step three?”  
  
Spencer felt as if he could wither under the director’s cool gaze.  The tone in his voice was disapproving, making Reid feel as if he’d done something wrong.  He’d felt like he’d made a step forward.  Now Foyet’s tacit displeasure made him wonder if he’d actually taken a step back.  After a tight swallow, he tried to explain.  “Sir, I realised that there’s no way we can mark and modify the memories in a single dosage.  The risk of the drug marking and modifying unrelated memories was too high.”  
  
There was a flash of something in the Director’s eyes and Spencer found himself unsettled even though he couldn’t put a finger on why.  
  
“All right.  Keep working on what you’ve been working on.  I’ll see if I can get you those reports you requested.  I’ve already ordered your next batch of rats.  We’ll hope for a higher success rate this time.”  With a hand heavier than Reid had anticipated, Director Foyet clapped him on the shoulder and he nodded, waiting for the Director to leave the room before he rubbed at the hand print he was sure Foyet had left behind.  
  
—-  
  
There were some things at the laboratory facility that were simply understood - secrets that were there in the open and nobody thought about questioning.  The most prominent was how men in military uniforms walked in, got on the elevator, and weren’t seen again, even for lunch breaks, until it was time to leave for the day.  Their ID badges weren’t just laminated plastic with their name and photo beside the lab logo.  They had a QR code and magnetic strip, identifying and giving access to floors that the other personnel couldn’t even press the button for.  But the assumption that those floors were restricted to military personnel was incorrect, though unchallenged.  Even among scientists, they’d seen no evidence to the contrary.  
  
Foyet liked it that way.  People didn’t need to know exactly how far his influences ran.  He climbed onto the elevator alone and with one scan and swipe of his hidden ID, he was brought to a level that very few were allowed to see.  There were no cameras in that elevator and no cameras within those walls.  No one needed to see what it was that went on in these rooms.  
  
He practically stalked out of the elevator and toward his private office - a small, windowless room in a distant corner past rooms walled away in glass.  Curtains hid the interiors of some.  Others lay open and empty, their railed beds waiting for who or what would come next, and George went past them all.  If there was one thing that got on his nerves, it was having his plans disturbed - and his plans had been seriously disturbed.  
  
As the door closed behind him (the damn thing was impossible to slam, no matter how he threw it or kicked it - the hydraulic hinge was just too well made), he made himself take a deep breath.  All right, so the little upstart’s report had explained some of the problems they’d been having, but that didn’t mean that the delay was appreciated.  And he hated that he couldn’t actually blame the bastard.  Reid thought he was doing this to help the troops, so he was being a good American.  His teeth clenched as he walked away from a new dent in the drywall.  It was one of those days where he wanted to load someone’s veins with potassium just to watch them arrest and die, and he knew just which assignment he wanted to do that to but the guy was just too important.  
  
“Fuck!” he shouted, kicking the desk and being glad that the office was soundproof.  “They give me this… this bleeding heart genius and tell me to coddle him and a hardass agent and tell me to break him but not kill him— They are going to fucking _owe me_ …”  He was nearly snarling by the time he threw himself into his chair and reached for the flask he kept in one of the drawers.  He wasn’t going to be any good to anyone in the shape he was in now.  It was definitely time for a quick cool-down drink.  If he could just keep in mind that his damned bleeding heart genius was a fast, determined worker and he’d have his answer soon enough, then maybe he could actually get his temper back under control before he did something that got him shelved.  
  
—-  
  
The Director’s scolding left Spencer on edge for the rest of the day.  He still wasn’t sure what had brought it on, but he knew that it just hadn’t felt quite right.  He was doing everything just the way he should and with his mind for details, he knew that he was following every single lab protocol he’d ever been taught.  He’d barely gotten any work done, but at least his delivery had arrived.  He’d requested it the day before, just after filing his report.  
  
The latest research on his subject had just been published, he’d discovered, and while he had every confidence in his own findings, having a few more outside opinions rarely hurt.  If they were too off-base, he could easily ignore it, but if they illuminated some detail he’d overlooked, then it would make his final product all the better.  It had sat on his desk and tormented him until he was finally able to start on his way home.  That sort of research had to wait until after the official work was done.  
  
Reid’s head was buried in the first report as he’d taken his usual place at the back of the elevator, his mind leagues away.  A part of him was taking in and understanding everything that had been written before him, but another part was trying to analyse exactly why Director Foyet had talked to him that way.  It was so out of character for him.  The Director had always been understanding and thoughtful with him.  For him to be so snappish now was confusing.  
  
It dawned on him as he stepped outside the elevator.  He’d had people try to steal his researches and developments before and the rush— That had to be it.  Foyet was going to try to claim all of this, and he was trying to get a jump on the publications.  That was why he was angry.  He’d already had a version of it written up and ready to send in when Spencer had refuted it!  
  
His eyes were narrowed when he looked up from the report, ready to turn around and go back into the building to find and speak to the Director no matter what when he discovered that somehow, he was definitely not in the lobby.  In fact, he was not in a part of the building that he recognised at all.  
  
The right thing to do was to turn around, get back on the elevator, and leave - but there was one small problem:  his ever-insatiable curiosity.  With the folder full of reports clutched against his chest, his satchel over his shoulder, he carefully walked down the corridor in front of him, just waiting for someone to notice him on the security system and intercept him before he got too far.  He was halfway down the hallway by the time he realised that that simply wasn’t going to happen.  
  
How he’d managed to get this far under the radar, he had no idea, but now that he was this far, he was being tugged farther.  First it had been curiosity that had led him down the corridor that resembled nothing more than an intensive care unit, but now he heard something that pulled at him out of pure human decency.  Someone was in pain and these hallways were so quiet and so empty that he knew that he was the only one who could, or would, address it.  He checked doorway after doorway, testing some, but they were solidly closed, some blocked off by curtains behind the glass.  
  
Three doors refused to give way before he finally located the one with the sound coming from beyond, and it only opened after, with more than a slight degree of stubbornness, he forced it into sliding away and pushed past the curtain to step inside.  He was blinded by the dimness inside, surprised at just how dark the curtains kept the small room.  He had to close his eyes tightly for a few heartbeats to force his eyes to adjust so he could actually see what the room held.  
  
For a moment, he was almost disappointed.  His mind, well-fed as it was on science fiction and medical literature, had concocted many possible scenes and they all involved much more blood and gore than what was before him.  Instead, what he saw was a middle-aged man in a hospital bed.  There were IVs that led beneath the covers but there was no hint of injury beyond a few bruises on his face.  It was a closer look that started to tell the story.  The IV tubes weren’t the only things that disappeared beneath the sheet and blanket.  There were restraints that fastened beneath the mattress and to the rails, holding him practically immobile.  
  
He wouldn’t have been surprised to find a volunteer for human experimentation.  Most studies did eventually progress to that step.  And for drugs that were mostly developed for the military, a man like this, with a military physique, wouldn’t be surprising - but that this man was being held down…  
  
Spencer was frowning as he placed his satchel and folder to the side and approached the IV to see what drug it was that was being delivered into the man’s veins.  The faint orange tint, however, gave him a sickly feeling before he even read on the label to find his own work staring back at him.  
  
His work.  The chemical that he had decided needed refinement before it was given to a human body.  His two-step process that had been ended as quickly as it had been begun, and it was already being given to this man—  
  
Both of his hands clapped over his mouth as he recoiled, struck by immediate and bone-deep nausea.  He didn’t even know he was trembling as he stared, stricken, into a pair of eyes that had been closed moments before.  He had to talk himself out of vomiting.  He had to talk himself out of the panic that was threatening.  There were too many pieces suddenly slotting into place for him to even comprehend the low, roughened voice that growled at him from the bed, “Did they send you to finish the job or are you just too chicken to face what your damn department’s done?”  
  
Reid slid down the curtained glass, the world seeming to shift under him.  He could feel himself seeking an answer even as the room seemed to grow even dimmer.  Oh God.  What had he done?


	4. Chapter 4

There was the sense that time had passed. He couldn’t tell how much time - the quality of light certainly hadn’t changed - but as Spencer Reid finally stood from where he’d ended up in the floor, he felt cold from contact with the tiles. Kneeling, he raked his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face so he could try to figure out just what he was going to do.

“It’s about time,” came the voice from the bed and Reid’s thoughts scattered once more. His head turned so he could see the room’s other occupant. He was still secured to the bed and the drip was still active. And while Spencer knew he could do something about both issues, he wasn’t sure just what he dared to do.

“I’m sorry. I’m… so sorry. I didn’t…” But his voice trailed off as he pushed himself to stand, having to brace himself on the bed’s foot board.

“Didn’t what, exactly?”

The man was bitter and, from what Reid could see, he had every right to be. He was captive and being given a drug that hadn’t even reached primary trials, let alone human trials. Reid wasn’t at all surprised that he, himself, wasn’t trusted. He exhaled and made a decision. One that would have consequences he had no idea of yet. It only took a few steps, but then he was shutting off the flow of the IV and replacing the hanging bag with one of saline. “I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t know what I’d find. …I didn’t know that they were doing this. I…” He squeezed his eyes tight shut as his hands worked. “I didn’t know a lot of things.”

Turning, Spencer met the man’s gaze. He usually tried to hide things in his own gaze, but this time, he wanted the man on the bed to see all of his apology, his hurt, the nausea at what was being done — he wanted the man to know that he was not on the side of the people that had done this to him.

There was distrust in the dark eyes that looked back up at him, but there was also a kind of evaluation. If anyone could earn his trust again, Spencer felt like he might have made a first step by switching the IV bags and being as honest as he could be about what it was he was facing. Now, though, he was facing something more troublesome. While he couldn’t conscionably let someone be tortured, he had to wonder just what it was this man had done to end up where he was. If he was a dangerous criminal or if he’d been taken captive.

“I believe you,” he said at last, and Spencer felt himself release a fraction of the tension that had been across his shoulders.

“Thank you. I… I’d try to … let you up, but I don’t think I can. I don’t know enough about you.”

“And I’m not going to tell you.”

The surprise felt like a kick to his stomach. He’d almost been sure that the story would come out immediately, but maybe that only happened in movies. “But…”

“If I told you anything, you could be forced to tell your bosses.”

His bosses. Like Director Foyet, who had this in mind when he’d been growling at Spencer over his new discoveries. The fact that it was being pushed through to this captive so quickly meant that either this man had secrets that they were trying to manipulate out of him with Spencer’s drug, or they were trying to erase something like a black op out of his memory. And neither one of those were things that Spencer could stand for.

It was one thing to manipulate the memory to make life easier for someone, but to try to manipulate—

“I should’ve expected this,” he murmured. “Look, I— I don’t… I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back here or not, but I’m going to try. I’m going to find a way to get you out of here.”

When the man in the bed laughed, it felt like a slap. How was it that this man he’d barely met knew how to make him feel like an idiot without even trying? “Either you’re really altruistic or you’re extremely naive. I could be a murderer.”

“Whether you’re a murderer or not,” Reid said, drawing himself up to his full height, “you’re a human. And nobody deserves to be tortured.”

And for once, it was the man’s turn to look surprised.

——

He’d heard voices and, for once, he’d decided not to come too close - not to eavesdrop, though he knew from the timbre just whose voice the second was. He was careful to temper his rage with the knowledge that now, with what the unwitting Doctor Reid had done, he could force Reid’s hand.

When the younger man, complete with his folder and satchel, stepped out of the curtained room, Foyet stood waiting for him, gaze flat, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his pristine white coat. “Doctor Reid,” he said, his tone almost conversational, “I think we need to have a little talk.”

The way the kid jumped was satisfying, but he didn’t let that show as he, instead, guided Spencer to his private office. If nothing else, the hapless doctor remained obedient even when the door closed and locked behind him.

“Director Foyet, I—”

“I don’t know how you got up here,” Foyet interrupted, his tone allowing no argument, “but now that you are up here, you’ve gotten yourself into quite a situation.” He slid into his chair, brows lowered, a frown that bordered on concerned on his face.

His voice small and a little frightened, Spencer answered, “I don’t know how I got up here either. I thought I was in the lobby. I was reading…”

“That doesn’t matter.” The Director steepled his fingers, looking across his desk at the young man who was almost hiding in his chair like a frightened seven year old. “What matters is that now, you know.”

“I— I know you’re holding a man against his will and subjecting him to an untested drug—”

“And you know how to make the final version of that drug - or you will, given enough time, and that’s the argument I’m going to give to the people who would rather see your head on a platter than at work on refining what you’ve started.”

Spencer went still. Ever since he’d walked into that room, his entire world had shifted. He knew he was in over his head, but he also knew that there was more to these statements than what was immediately audible. He knew that his life was in danger. That was the surface level of reading between the lines. But what else was he being told? One of his professors had always warned him of conspiracy theories and while he’d written it all off, now he couldn’t help but wonder.

“Sir, I— I don’t… Can you tell me his name? Or what he did? I know I probably don’t have the right to know, but I… I’d at least feel a little better about all this if I knew…”

“His name is Aaron Hotchner, and he’s a traitor,” Foyet answered, calm and a little vindictive. “He was an agent sent to Russia to infiltrate the SVR. He infiltrated a little too far and sold off some of our secrets to his new friends.”

“That’s a … a really serious charge.” It wasn’t the Cold War anymore and people didn’t worry about Russian spies like they used to, but relations between the US and Russia still weren’t perfectly smooth - especially as it came to the SVR and accusations of heads of state being assassinated.

Foyet nodded, looking seriously across at him. “And that’s why he’s here, and why you found him with your chemicals going into his veins. We need to find out what he told them - and he isn’t talking. Even under the so-called truth drugs, we can’t trust what he says.”

Without saying another word, Reid nodded. Just as he hoped, the Director took it as acquiescence. “I’ll be talking to the others in the morning. Come in at the usual time. I’ll tell you the decision then.”

“Yes, sir,” he nodded and slowly stood, knowing he would have to be escorted to the elevator to guarantee no side trips. Only once the door closed behind him, the button for the lobby clearly pressed, did he dare to exhale.

He had to think about what he’d been told without Foyet realising he’d said it - like the fact that there were people above Foyet in this. That meant that the Director was under outside pressure, and while some of this might have been his doing, there were more people who were higher in the so-called food chain. And given the nature of this facility, it was probably some of those people in the uniforms who disappeared into the elevators and weren’t seen again until it was time for everyone to go home.

And by that same logic, it meant that one of those uniformed number had to have put him onto the elevator to that upstairs floor instead of to the lobby — and that meant that whomever that man in the room was, he had to have some friends who were similarly high up.

Spencer’s qualms about seeing to getting the man free were suddenly settled. There was more to this than he knew, but he had every reason to believe that whomever these people were, they couldn’t be more two-faced than Director George Foyet. A surge of confidence went through him. It was hard to outfox a genius - but he still had a part to play. He would be under observation, he was sure, even though as he glanced behind him (couldn’t stop glancing behind him), he imagined more than saw dark-coloured SUVs making every turn he made.

His nerves were still on edge as he parked in the gravel lot outside his favourite Indian restaurant but the greeting from the proprietors helped him to smile instead of look completely spooked. “Hey - yeah, I want my usual— but take your time,” he told them. “I need to make a phone call back here on your pay phone.”

“Of course, of course,” they told him, and he waved slightly before disappearing down the hallway where the bathrooms were hidden.

He dug into his pockets for change and fed it into the slot before dialing the familiar number of the biochemistry professor that had become a trusted friend. The voice on the other end went a long way to soothing what was left of his anxiety. “Gideon,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Hey, how are you? Yeah, I’m— Honestly, I need your help.”


	5. Chapter 5

He couldn’t let himself think about it often, or for very long when he couldn’t keep it out out of his mind.  It was a terrible feeling and one that could terrify him if he let it - knowing that, now, there were holes in his memory where there hadn’t been before.  The worst was that he was sure that what he’d forgotten was important and not to the job he’d been doing for years but to him, personally.  He had lost _something_ and he couldn’t, for anything, remember what.  
  
The damned drug they’d fed into his veins had to be the cause.  They’d told him it altered memories as they’d pushed the IV into his arm, and damn how it’d hurt.  But he guessed he’d made the mistake himself.  He’d clung to the things he wanted to remember and hadn’t even thought about the secrets they’d wanted to pry from him.  And now those memories…  
  
Whatever they were, they were gone.  
  
It was hard to find a way to mourn what he’d lost while strapped to a bed, not even sure what it was that had gone the way of the dodo.  All he had was that sense of importance and the want to get it back - but if he thought about it, if he let himself try to prod at those empty places in his mind, his blood pressure rose and the next thing he knew, he was being sedated.  Drugged, again.  So he traded that knowledge for the awareness of what was around him.  
  
Of course, there wasn’t usually much going on around him.  He was given his meals three times daily, one of his hands unstrapped to let him eat with the useless plastic spoon they allowed him.  About five times a day, he was taken to the bathroom.  Any time he was loose from the bed, he was followed by a uniform with a gun at the ready so he would be on his best behaviour.  Too bad, he thought, that it was getting more and more tempting to misbehave just to get this trial over with.  
  
Aaron was settling in to the usual morning wait that came after breakfast when the last thing he’d expected happened:  the curtain opened to allow the fainting kid from the day before, clad in a lab coat, to enter.  It wasn’t fair, he thought then, to call the other man a kid.  He was younger, yes, but he was an adult.  His badge gave his name as Spencer Reid, complete with a worse haircut than the one he was now sporting.  
  
“You’re still alive,” he said, putting voice to his surprise.  
  
“So are you,” the young doctor answered, the curtain falling closed behind him.  “I… came to check a few things.”  
  
Reid’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and Aaron tried to read his body language.  His words almost made him doubt the veracity of what had happened the day before, but between that swallow and the fidget that seemed inherent in his movements, Aaron decided to at least give the doctor enough rope to hang himself if it came to that.  “It’s still just saline,” he said, voice low but firm, and Reid nodded.  
  
“Good.  I… I hoped.”  But one long-fingered hand was pulling the too-mundane charts from the foot of the bed to look over what little had been written down.  “I should ask you some questions, though, because…  The drug that you were given wasn’t yet ready for human testing, let alone use in a formal environment, so you’re the only one who can tell me what happened while you were…”  
  
“Being subjected to it?”  The flatness of his tone had made Reid flinch and he almost regretted it - but what reason did he have to be sorry about making one of these doctors hurt?  Except that Spencer Reid wasn’t like the rest of them.  He was younger, yes, but he was also the first one who had seen him and who had wanted to let him go instead of stick a needle into him.  
  
Reid nodded, though, and pulled over the little rolling stool that usually stayed tucked into a corner.  “I’d been testing the medication on rats, but they can’t tell me, in words, what hurts and what doesn’t, and just how effective the compounds are.  I know it should work, but I don’t know if—”  
  
“So you’re the one that concocted that shit?” Aaron hissed, a flare of anger making him jerk at the bonds that held him - and making Spencer nearly levitate backward.  “You’re the one that made that acid that fucked with my head, and then you come in here with your glib little questions?!”  
  
From the wall at the foot of the bed, Reid squeaked, “I’m sorry!  I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t— I _have_ to do this now, or they’ll kill me, Mister Hotchner!”  
  
The panic in the other man’s eyes was unmistakeable.  Between the threat of death and the more immediate, if limited, threat of physical violence against him, Reid was honestly afraid for his life, and Aaron could see what his momentary rage had blinded him to a moment before.  He’d come in here by accident the day before, somehow, and now he knew what they had been doing.  If he didn’t do what he was told now, they’d have ample reason to see to it that he was… moved out of the way.  
  
Aaron let the tension out of his limbs, his bonds loosening as he made himself relax.  “Fine.”  But he glanced over at the monitor.  Good, his blood pressure hadn’t reached the point where they’d come in with a needle.  “I believe you.”  
  
“Thank you,” Reid said, starting to peel himself off of the wall - and frowning for a reason that Aaron didn’t grasp for a moment.  But then he knew.  It was his smile.  A smile he hadn’t even known he was smiling until he’d seen the frown on Reid’s face.  “What?” Reid asked.  “Is it funny that you nearly scared me to death?”  
  
“No.  It’s funny that I honestly don’t know how you got from my bedside to the wall in the time it took for me to blink without falling over the stool.”  
  
“I—”  Reid stopped and Aaron watched as he looked from where he was now to the stool and where he’d been standing before.  He went from frowning to indignant to confused before he spoke again.  “…I don’t know either.”  
  
For the first time in months, Aaron laughed.  He wasn’t alone.  There was someone stuck in this mess with him, and that someone was sympathetic.  He’d still have to watch what he said, but just the presence of a person who didn’t look at him like he was the scum of the earth was enough to give him a measure of relief.  Enough that he could laugh and not feel like he was going insane.  
  
——  
  
Seeing Aaron Hotchner, accused traitor and prisoner of the United States of America, laugh left Reid stunned and he hoped after he left the room that he hadn’t been too obvious in his staring.  Even strapped to a hospital bed, the man had been intimidating until he started to smile and laugh but once that barrier had been breached, Spencer had found himself bewitched by a very, very attractive man.  
  
The fact that he found a man attractive didn’t surprise him.  He’d found men attractive before but he’d learned that when one wasn’t exactly the most masculine of men, it was better to pretend to be completely straight.  It gave people one less reason to decide he needed a fist in his face.  This, however, was highly inappropriate because even if this man wasn’t a traitor, something he couldn’t be sure about, he was a captive, he was a torture victim, and if he gave any kind of hint of interest, he knew how it could be interpreted.  He wasn’t going to have Mister Hotchner believing that giving in to sex with him would free him.  Spencer was going to free him no matter what.  
  
Frustratingly, he couldn’t get those dark eyes (made darker, he was sure, by the dim lighting in the room) out of his mind.  His mind was filling in details, like how his face would fill out a little more once he was getting better food than hospital fare and regular exercise instead of the occasional walk to the bathroom.  It made him hope he was there to see it.  
  
Spencer did what he was required to do the entire morning until lunch and at lunch, instead of going to the cafeteria, he used his new ID - one he’d found on his desk that morning with the note that told him not to press his luck - to take his lunch upstairs.  There was no way to know if that was pressing his luck, but he was going to give it a try anyway.  Mister Hotchner probably hadn’t had any real company for—  
  
His thought processes and his steps came to a stop outside Hotchner’s room.  How long  _had_ he been there?  How long had he been strapped to a bed?  Reid knew he’d been there long enough to test his drug, but that didn’t mean anything.  He could’ve been there for much longer before that.  Nobody had seen him, or seen a hint of him, being brought in.  If he hadn’t already decided to get him out, that would’ve made up his mind for him.  
  
Walking into the room to find three people inside made him pause.  One of Mister Hotchner’s hands had been unstrapped and the bed had been adjusted into more of a sitting posture so he could eat from the tray that sat in front of him, but he had a man to either side, one of whom had a hand resting on a pistol that was holstered at his side.  Spencer was sure his heart was going to stop.  
  
“Can I help you, sir?” asked the uniformed man, and Reid shook his head.  
  
“I’m just here to have a meal with Mister Hotchner, here.  I’m trying to up his humane treatment quotient.”  Inside, he was trembling, but outside, he didn’t let his gaze waver from the large man’s, refusing to let himself back down.  There was no good reason not to let him just eat in the same room, and eventually the guard saw that, too.  He took a few steps back and Reid settled himself on the rolling stool and gave Hotchner a smile.  “Maybe I’ll bring you a sandwich and noodles tomorrow, too - it’s got to be tastier than what you’re getting,” he offered as he sat.    
  
Whether there was gratitude there or not, he couldn’t tell, but Reid spoke to him all the same, offering company that wasn’t threatening him with needles or bullets and trying to judge whether or not he’d be amenable to whatever plan it was that he and Gideon managed to pull together.  Right now, the immediate want was to get Mister Hotchner to a room where he could see the outdoors.  Sunlight and vitamin D definitely couldn’t hurt.  
  
He left reluctantly, his lunch remains tucked away as they replaced the padded leather strap around their captive’s wrist.  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, giving what he hoped was an encouraging smile before he left.  
  
That evening,  was leaning against the wall in the little side hallway in the mall when Gideon told him, “One of the other professors is loaning me a car in a week.  Can you be ready by then?”  
  
“I hope so.”  He scanned the hallway, wary of everyone who headed toward him, his voice carefully low.  Nobody could overhear.  This was going to be the riskiest and possibly stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life.  
  
“Can you tell me the plan?”  
  
“When has my memory ever let me down?”  
  
“Prove it.”  
  
If he hadn’t been able to hear the smile in his mentor’s voice, he would’ve been offended.  “I’ll prove it by not saying a word right now.”  
  
Professor Gideon chuckled on the other end of the line.  “Good.  You’re learning.”  
  
“Always,” Spencer answered, glancing down the hallway again.  “So I’ll meet you in Roanoke.”  It was code.  The plan was still on, and where they were going was nowhere near Roanoke, but it was a nice, handy red herring.  
  
After he hung up with Gideon, Reid sighed.  One week.  He had one week to make sure his plan was possible.  That was a lot of trust to build so fast but there was no option.  Hands in his pockets, he tried to blend in with the crowd as he headed toward the exit.  Tomorrow, it would start with cereal bars and sandwiches and hopefully, it would end in the freedom of Gideon’s basement.  
  
He laughed even as he thought it.  Never had a basement sounded like such a good idea.


	6. Chapter 6

There wasn’t enough time for mornings to become a ritual.  He had to make it fast, as much as he knew that would leave room for balking.  Before he left the house the next day, he tucked two sandwiches into his bag, two dishes of noodles, and four cereal bars.  He didn’t dare buy two coffees.  That would raise too many eyebrows as he came in.  He had to prove, too, that he was worth the trust that his plan would take, and sealed food - like the cereal bars at least - would help for that.  And maybe he could finagle some time alone with him to tell him the plan.  
  
That was vital.  He could have all of the ideas laid out plainly, have all the cooperation from Gideon and his friends, but unless all of this was agreed to, there simply was no point in all of it.  A part of him couldn’t imagine Mister Aaron Hotchner saying no to being broken out of medical torture and captivity, but then he remembered how the man refused to tell him the least thing about just how he’d been taken captive.  He’d had to get Foyet to tell him and now, he couldn’t trust Foyet’s word in the least.  
  
So the first thing to do was to sneak time alone with him somehow.  Something to turn his mighty intellect toward, he thought, as he stepped into the elevator and scanned his card so he could go up to Hotchner’s floor.  
  
The card itself was still a mystery.  It had to be permission of a kind, but the question was just how far that permission was extended.  Reid intended to use it for all it was worth.  Time would tell if he overstepped an unknown boundary.  
  
The door slid open onto a view he still wasn’t used to - that hallway with its glassed-in walls and curtained rooms, everything carefully hidden from the naked eye.  Something wasn’t quite what he expected, though, and the thought kept occurring to him as he took step by step along the white tiles.  Overhead, there was a drop ceiling with fluorescent lighting, the occasional environmental vent, either to let air in or let air go out.  
  
It wasn’t until he was almost at the right door that he realised that what he was looking for wasn’t the presence of something strange as much as it was the absence of something normal.  There were no security cameras.  The realisation put a smile on his face as he pushed the curtain aside to enter the little room that held the reason for his visit.  Something was going right.  
  
The room was still dim as he looked around, but seeing that Hotchner was awake, he greeted him with a cheerful, “Good morning.  I brought breakfast.”  
  
“Breakfast?  And what do you plan to do, feed me?”  
  
“Since I’d get in too much trouble otherwise, I think I might have to.”  But he pulled the cereal bars out of his bag as he caught the rolling stool with his toe.  “Still sealed.  Not trying to kill you.”  
  
The flat look he was given was almost amusing.  “Are you always this disturbingly cheerful?”  
  
Spencer adjusted the stool up to its full height one-handedly.  “Honestly?  No.  But this is a good morning.  I discovered something that’s going to be very helpful.”  
  
“And what’s that?”  
  
As he sat, he spoke his voice carefully quieter.  “That there aren’t any security cameras out there, which will make getting you out of here a lot easier.”  
  
Aaron snorted, but Spencer just sat, opening one of the cereal bars, making a show of it before holding it out to where Aaron could take a bite.  There was nothing joking in his expression.  No hint of a smile - not anymore.  Just a confidence that was more than slightly surprising.  
  
“You mean it,” he said, and Spencer nodded, nudging the cereal bar toward him.  
  
“I do mean it.  No matter what you’ve done, I can’t conscionably let you be experimented on, even if the results would be important.  I don’t even like the fact that my rats are hurt or die.  So I’m getting you out of here.  In one week.  Now are you going to eat the breakfast I brought or do you want to get stuck with the equivalent to hospital fare?”  
  
“…What flavour is this thing?”  
  
“Apple cinnamon.  I’ve got strawberry, too, if you like that more.”  
  
A plan to get him out, cereal bars, a ridiculously chirpy good morning.  Aaron sighed but shook his head.  “Bring on the apple cinnamon.  It’s better than rubbery eggs any day.”  
  
——  
  
Work had to be done.  Nobody could know what he planned and that meant making everything seem normal for the next week that he spent there at the laboratory.  The impromptu breakfast had been finished before what he figured was normal mealtime - and he couldn’t help but be grateful for that.  He was sure the system had already noted his little journey up and down from Hotchner’s floor, but he hadn’t been seen.  As far as anyone knew, he went up, looked in on him, and left.  
  
There was something satisfying about this kind of subterfuge.  The ability to sneak around without anyone noticing, planning something so risky.  It made the little boy in him thrill at the thought.  It was like putting on a stormtrooper uniform and walking through the Death Star with a Wookiee in cuffs.  
  
The mental image made him stifle his own laughter.  He’d seen a little of Aaron Hotchner’s forearms, and he was hairy, but he wasn’t Chewbacca-hairy.  Swift on that thought’s trail was one that he viciously shoved away.  There was too much at stake to let his thoughts take that particular turn.  
  
Instead, he put his mind through rigors, working out chemical formulae, carrier solutions, and timelines.  The next batch of rats was on its way, courtesy of Director Foyet, and Spencer felt sorry for them.  Whomever did use them, whatever experiment did need them, they wouldn’t be as well-cared-for as Spencer could manage, but at least they wouldn’t die at his hands.  
  
He spent the hours before lunch letting those wind through the background of his thoughts, the foreground occupied with molecule chains that he notated on whiteboard, erasing as needed and reworking here and there.  The formulae honestly wouldn’t take him that long.  Most of it was there in his head, waiting to be worked out.  Waiting to be written.  Waiting to be plucked from his subconscious.  
  
Pacing was critical.  He couldn’t simply go through it at breakneck speed.  He had to milk this work for an entire week and give himself time to let the plan be known, and time to let another part of his plan work.  One of the phone calls he’d made at one of many pay phones had been to an ex-girlfriend.  
  
It had made him smile that she was so sympathetic and so willing to help him out even after their breakup.  But then, she’d always enjoyed looking at other guys with him.  Maybe it wasn’t so surprising after all.  Courtesy of her magic fingers, all of his recorded work on the laboratory computer network would be wiped.  There would be no way for them to claim the work was theirs and after he saw to it that all of their stores of his existing drugs would be gone, they wouldn’t be able to use it on anyone else.  
  
And he was never going to be able to live a life without being on the run again.  
  
“Something on your mind, Doctor Reid?”  
  
The marker clattered from his hand to bounce on the floor tiles, leaving blue marks on the white, and Spencer silently cursed himself for getting so involved in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard the Director enter yet again.  Before, he would’ve smiled and welcomed him.  Now, he knew too much to be comforted by the man he had thought of as his mentor.  “Just the new process.  I’ve not—”  He paused, breaking off his words before he said too much and quickly rephrased.  “My findings haven’t been so… complete yet.”  
  
There was a glimmer in Foyet’s eyes that unsettled him further, reminding him of just how his perceptions had changed.  
  
“So the… subject hasn’t been forthcoming,” he concluded.  “I’ll see if something can be done about that.  That feedback would help, I’m sure.”  
  
Reid swallowed tightly, a chill of fear settling in his stomach.  “It— It would, but sir, don’t—”  
  
“You’re always so softhearted.”  Foyet gave him a smile that only made that knot of fear heavier.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll get you the information you need.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  There was no way of telling the Director that that was exactly what scared him.  When Foyet had left his lab, Reid practically sprinted for the bathroom to bid farewell to the breakfast he’d eaten, knowing very well that Aaron Hotchner, a matter of floors above, would have all the more lunch to eat today.  
  
Unless Foyet did something to him.  
  
That stab of worry had him rinsing his mouth all the more quickly, grabbing the lunch bag he’d brought, and rushing upstairs.  The elevator was too slow for his liking and he tried to will it to go faster, to get him to Hotchner’s floor all the faster, because surely with him there, nothing would happen.  He was a witness, someone who could talk—  
  
But even as the door opened, he knew he was wrong.  No matter what they did, they knew that if Reid talked, they could just terminate.  Not an experiment, as simple as that was.  No, they would just terminate him or Hotchner, as simple as pressing a button.  Or pulling a trigger.  
  
For a long moment, standing just outside the closing elevator doors, he considered running away.  Forgetting his entire plan, forgetting Aaron Hotchner, forgetting the torture of someone being forced to forget.  It wouldn’t save him, though.  It would only leave him to run alone for so much less reason than freeing someone from medical hell.  
  
Step after step, he went down the hall, wondering if he couldn’t get Gideon to push up the date, but then he heard the sounds.  The heavy thump of a fist to flesh, a muffled voice, hissed questions in Foyet’s voice.  The fear was back in less than a second.  He knew what was happening and it stopped him in his tracks before, trembling, he ducked into another room - one that was blessedly empty, blessedly dark, and he pressed himself into the corner.  
  
Time stretched as he heard strike after strike, his eyes clenched tight shut, his hands clutching the bag he’d packed for lunch, and he stood there, unmoving, until there were footsteps, the sound of the elevator descending, and then silence.  Even then, he stood there longer, waiting and hoping that the footsteps wouldn’t come back.  
  
When the silence stretched for long enough, Spencer could finally move, pushing the curtain aside and going to the room that was getting more and more familiar by the hour.  The dimmed lights soothed his eyes after the near-painful transition from darkness to the brightly lit hallway, and there, looking at Hotchner still strapped to the bed, he knew.  He was an idiot.  He was an idiot and a coward, unable to step in for someone that he meant to save.  
  
“This is my fault,” he whispered.  “I’m so sorry.”  
  
The swelling was already obvious.  The bruises would bloom vivid purple.  There was blood at his nostrils, and at least one laceration at his temple.  Hotchner coughed.  “Yeah,” he muttered past a split lip.  “Yeah, it is.  But not as much as you think.”  
  
The bag was immediately put aside.  “Don’t talk.  I’m… I’m going to treat you for this, and I don’t care who comes in while I do it.  I’m…”  He took a breath.  “I’m going to see if… if I can’t make one week turn into one day.  You need to be out of here.”  
  
“I’m going to need time to heal.  Keep it one week.”  He winced, but even through the swelling, Spencer could meet those keen, intelligent brown eyes.  “But watch your back, Doc.  He hates me, but he hates you more.”  
  
With that thought haunting him, Reid worked as efficiently as he could.  He didn’t know his way around this floor, but before long, the blood had been mopped away and clotting had been helped along thanks to some clotting sponges.  It looked ridiculous, but he wasn’t leaking red anymore.  A gel pack was placed against the worst side of his face, and a few more further down his chest and side, where Hotchner had told him he was also struck.  He’d even started a drip of a low-dose painkiller.  
  
“Great,” Hotchner had muttered at one point.  “Foyet’s going to beat or drug me to death and you’re going to mother hen me to death.”  
  
Reid smirked slightly, barely visible in the dim light, but he held up the containers of noodles he’d finally managed to prepare.  “And which way would you rather go?”  
  
“Bring on the noodles.  At least I’ll die full.”  
  
His smile gave way to a quiet laugh as he let down one of the rails.  “I can’t apologise enough for this happening, though,” Reid murmured, his smile fading into sadness.  “The last thing I want is to see somebody hurt because of me.”  
  
It was a surprise to feel the bed shift with an attempt at a nudge, drawing his attention from the noodle bowl to Hotchner’s face.  “Then stop starving me to death.  That’s the best thing I’ve smelled in weeks.”  
  
The idea dawned on him slowly.  The man actually wanted him to smile again.  To stop blaming himself.  He couldn’t quite do the latter, but he could do the former, and he did - a small but grateful smile that preceded a forkful of noodles.  “Your wish is my command.”


	7. Chapter 7

He’d been on the other side of this scheme before.  He’d been the good agent sent in to seemingly undo what the bad agent had done.  Of course, more often, he’d been the bad agent.  The anger, the rage, the forceful voice demanding answers.  His hands were far from clean, and when he looked at his situation, he knew he shouldn’t be so willing to go with Doctor Reid’s plan.  He knew that it was probably a ploy to get him hopeful, to get him more willing to talk, but there was something about him, something that was almost painfully honest.  
  
Aaron Hotchner hated the fact that he was playing into their plan.  He was getting a hell of a weak spot for the young doctor that kept bringing him food and actually trying to help with his situation.  It was the first physical care since he’d arrived in this godforsaken place.  The first decent food.  The first actual medical treatment that wasn’t something experimental.  
  
He was actually looking forward to Reid showing up every day.  He was looking forward to cereal bars or toaster pastries and sandwiches and noodles.  Either these people were clever or Reid was for real.  He was hoping Reid was real.  
  
Breakfast, however, was late.  He had to tolerate the crunchy sausage and gravy that looked more like cottage cheese and was secured to the bed again by the time Doctor Reid finally came back in, a bruise creeping across the side of his face that reminded Aaron of his own.  
  
“What the hell?” he blurted.  
  
“Sorry for being late,” Reid murmured, the curtain falling shut behind him.  
  
“I don’t care about late - what happened?”  It startled him, how something as simple as a bruise had him tightening his fists.  A big, purple bruise on—  
  
On a delicate-looking face.  A face that made him feel like its wearer needed protecting.  He was the one bound to a bed with leather straps, IVs stuck in his arms, sensors stuck on his body, and he was thinking about this doctor - technically one of his captors - as someone he needed to protect.  
  
But, he told himself, if this young man was being totally honest with him, then it was only recently that he’d found out that all of these people were people he couldn’t trust.  He’d been there to do honest work until suddenly he’d found him, a supposed traitor, being tortured under the same roof.  
  
He looked forward to finding out what was the truth.  
  
“I…  I was… reminded of where, exactly, my loyalties should lie,” the doctor answered, and Aaron clenched his jaw.  Oh, he couldn’t wait until his hands were loose and he could give that bastard Director something to think about.  His vengeful thoughts were interrupted, though, by a rustle and a bit of quiet thumping as Spencer pulled something out of his bag.  “But I decided that my work downstairs could be paused for now, and I brought something to occupy our time today.  …All of today.”  
  
What he saw left him staring in disbelief.  “Monopoly?” Aaron asked.  “Seriously?”  
  
“We can’t really play cards because I would know what your hand is and I know how to count cards,” he said, “and the same went for Clue, and we could’ve tried Trivial Pursuit, but I can read upside down and backward.  I’ve memorised all possible variations of Chess, so that wouldn’t be fun.  I can’t release one of your hands so we could play Pictionary or so you could place your boats with Battleship or your stones in Go.”  Then Spencer paused.  “And I can never get Mouse Trap to set up right.  That left Monopoly or twenty questions.”  
  
Aaron stared at him for a long few moments, having to make himself look past both the bruise and the perceived youth to the person behind.  “You spend a lot of time thinking about these things.”  
  
“It’s why I did so well in school.”  
  
“What’s your field, anyway?”  
  
“Biochemistry.  But I started out with my MD.  It just made sense.”  
  
“So you have an MD and a degree in—”  
  
“An MD, and PhDs in chemistry, molecular biology, and biochemistry.”  
  
“Jesus,” Aaron murmured, a new appreciation growing inside him for how much this man’s brain could do.  
  
“No, I’ve still not figured out how to walk on water unless it’s frozen - and even then, I fall,” Reid answered, a small smile coming to his lips, and Aaron had to laugh.  
  
“I want to be the hat.”  
  
Spencer smiled at him and being the object of that smile made Aaron smile in return.  “Good, because I’m going to be the dog.”  
  
They were both, Aaron discovered, keen players at the game.  Doctor Reid could quickly do the math in his head, but Aaron had a bit of cunning that the good doctor didn’t.  The game did indeed last all day long with Reid providing snacks and lunch.  He’d ended up perched on the foot of the bed, moving the pieces and rolling the dice for the both of them, the board laid out on the rolling table that usually only held a glass of water and pitcher.  He’d moved for Hotchner to have his daily excursions to the restroom but then he’d been right back on the bed with him.  
  
It convinced Hotchner of the younger man’s sincerity.  There was nothing in Reid’s manner that said he was complicit in any of this.  He was too open, too honest, for Hotchner to be able to see anything ill of him.  But that meant that, by the time came on Friday, he was nervous for both their sakes.  Unpracticed, Aaron wasn’t sure if he could fight off anyone that would come after them, and it was obvious Reid couldn’t.  Whatever plan was in place, he didn’t know - he only knew that he looked forward to being out of this damned bed, even if it meant showing his ass in a hospital gown.  
  
——  
  
Friday dawned and Spencer had had no sleep.  He’d spent a night full of nerves quietly rustling around in his apartment, gathering up everything that was important - that he could in no way do without because he knew that it was very likely that he would never again see anything that he left behind.  Every item had been considered.  Some things had to be left behind because of size, others because he knew that if he took too much, it would be too obvious.  
  
Some of what he’d finally chosen was sentimental, some of it was actual necessity, and all of it fit in one suitcase.  Large, but that was because of clothing more than anything else.  He’d miss the books but he had them memorised, and so few of his clothes truly fit that he didn’t care if they were destroyed.  Some things, like his collectibles and his mother’s wedding ring, he’d carefully packed in folds of clothing.  He’d been very careful not to be seen taking the bag out and putting it into his car even though he still couldn’t be sure if he’d been followed or not.  
  
When Reid left his apartment to go to work, his bag was heavy with supplies and his hands were occupied with coffee in one and a travel rat cage in the other.  There was no way he was leaving Boing behind.  He was already leaving so much.  It wasn’t the biggest apartment in the world, but it was his.  His first, his own, and he’d liked it.  It had been a step on the path to having his very own life and now he was throwing it away to live what kind of life?  The life of a fugitive?  
  
For a long moment, he stood outside his car and wondered just what he was doing.  He still had no idea if Hotchner really was a traitor or if he was innocent.  And while he didn’t doubt that Foyet was worth leaving behind, was it really worth having him as an enemy?  Their confrontation that night after he’d left Hotchner’s room had taught him a fraction of what it would be like.  How the Director had growled at him, pinning his shoulders against the wall, had reminded him of high school.  
  
“You had no business treating him.  Now you’re never going to get those precious answers you wanted.  How are we going to get that memory drug pushed out in time without his results?” Foyet had demanded, and while Spencer had tried to formulate an answer, he’d simply pulled back a fist and knocked Reid’s head back into the wall.  Spencer was sure that the bruise on his face had a twin - fraternal if not identical - on the back of his head.  Combing his hair had become instantly painful.  But it reminded him of what Hotchner had said.  Yes, Foyet hated his captive, but it seemed like Reid had become a target of his own merits.  A reason to steel his spine and move on.  
  
He climbed into the ancient Volvo and went over what he knew as he drove himself to work.  The day he’d spent playing Monopoly with Hotchner had been useful, though he doubted anyone had actually figured out why he’d done it, and that gave him enough confidence to be calm as he walked into the building.  He’d spoken to Gideon.  The plan was in place.  He knew what he was doing.  Now he just had to do it.  
  
A swipe of his key card and he went in for breakfast.  He actually had to do work today, but there were some aspects that he couldn’t change now that they’d become expected of him.  He talked with Hotchner over food at both breakfast and lunch, waiting until afternoon until starting his plan.  The day had been full of busywork.  Numbers, formulae, all of it written down, entered into the computer, all of the files put into neatly labeled folders so Penny could find them and extract them later, after his very telltale email was finally sent.  So often, he glanced down into the corner of the screen, keeping track of time, inventing things to do until he finally saw the digits tick over to 3:14 PM.  Pi o’clock.  
  
It was just after his afternoon trip to the restroom, Spencer thought as he hurriedly took himself to the locker room.  He’d thought it was odd that there would be a locker room on the grounds when he’d first been hired, but with just a little experience, he’d understood why.  Experiments got messy, clothes had to be changed; having a place with spare clothes and showers was only sensible.  He’d never had to use them much - only for changing between street clothes and scrubs when he couldn’t get away with changing in a bathroom stall - but he knew them well enough that he felt okay using them now.  
  
He’d brought a set of overlarge scrubs from home and in the privacy of the locker room, he pulled them on over his clothes.  There was a pair of sandals in his bag, but those would come into play later.  Last but not least came his white coat.  It fit him as well as anything else did, complete with his name embroidered at the lapel.  Everything was a careful ruse.  Gideon was paranoid, but everything he’d directed had made too much sense to disregard.  It was just that his mind felt like he was on autopilot.  The moment he’d left his desk, the world had seemed miles away and unreal, as if he was walking through a movie or a dream.  If that was what helped him through that, though, then that was how it would be.  
  
His bag over one shoulder, Boing’s cage had to be tucked into the very bottom with his apologies.  He needed to be careful at this point and that meant that some rodent niceties - like being able to see out - were ignored.  Instead, he had to pay more attention to necessities.  There was a list of preparations and contingencies in his mind.  There were things he couldn’t control, Gideon had told him during almost every phone call, and so he had to be prepared for them to happen.  
  
He had to be ready to lie his way past guards, be patient enough to let time pass until he could finally act, and he even had practiced a couple of moves that would get him out of some arm holds, but he was by no means ready for any sort of physical conflict.  Instead of thinking about that, Reid let his hand slide down to one of the pockets of his lab coat, his fingers finding the most dire contingency plan he’d come up with.  At least he knew that one would work.  
  
The halls were thankfully empty as with bag over his shoulder and a stack of folders in his arms, Reid let himself into the elevator and went up.  No cameras, Spencer reminded himself with a long, conscious breath.  No cameras.  He could do this.  When the elevator doors opened onto the corridor he’d come to know so well, he was relieved to find it just as hollow as ever.  There was something to be said for Friday afternoons.  Most people had already gone home, wanting the weekend to start as quickly as possible.  And that was good.  Fewer witnesses.  
  
It was only when he stepped into the room that he found the worst had happened.  He stopped mid-step when he saw, in a single moment that made his heart lurch, “Director Foyet.”  
  
“Doctor Reid,” the Director smiled, looking over at him with a smile that made Spencer nauseous.  He could almost feel the Director’s eyes pressing on the bruise that hadn’t lost any colour at all in the past days.  “I hope you’re feeling better after that little spill you took.”  
  
Acting was not his strong suit, but Reid still slapped a smile onto his face, hands sliding into his pockets.  His fingers wrapped around his little contingency plan.  Somehow, he’d been sure this would happen.  “I, uh.  I am.  It still hurts to blink sometimes?  But it’s getting better.  Something to be said for… for, um.  Lessons learned, right?”  
  
Behind him, Hotchner was gritting his teeth, but Spencer could only afford him a momentary glance.  He had to wait for opportunity.  An opportunity that swiftly presented itself as Foyet turned to look at Hotchner once more, to say softly, “You should learn from him.”  
  
In one swift motion, Spencer swung his arm in a perfect arc, the syringe that had been secreted in his pocket held in his fist, thumb on the plunger, and as soon as the needle sunk into Foyet’s neck, all of the serum was dispensed.  He saw the flash of anger, of pure fury, before the man lost consciousness and fell in a heap onto the floor.  
  
His hands shook.  He’d done that.  He’d just done that, and he was the least violent person in the world.  The world started to dim again, but this time, a voice broke it.  “Reid.  Reid!  Don’t you dare faint on me now.”  
  
“Right,” he murmured.  “Right, we… We’re getting you out of here.”  One deep breath and he set his bag aside, starting to work on Hotchner’s bonds.  It was time.


	8. Chapter 8

Gideon's plan only took over after they were outside the facility. Everything that happened behind those "secured" doors was up to Spencer. He'd thought he'd had it well under control, but now he was looking at an unconscious body in the floor in front of him, one hand clutching the syringe that had rendered that body unconscious. This was so far out of his realm that no amount of reading or watching spy movies (or just spy music videos, as the case may have been) could prepare him. Yet, medical school had.

"I need you to get out of bed," he said, "very slowly, so your monitors don't go off."

"Got it," Hotchner answered.

"Once you're up, I need you to open the cabinet beneath your heart monitor and get out the extra set of leads. I'm..." After a deep breath, Spencer bent, grabbing Foyet's arm. "I'm going to get him into the bed."

"Why don't I--"

"Because they'll see the exertion on your monitor. I have to do this part."

The Director was heavier than he looked - and while Spencer remembered everything he read, he'd somehow managed to forget just how awkward an unconscious body could be when you were dead lifting it. There were arms and legs in all directions until he could finally get both him and Foyet into the right position so he could lift.

By the time Foyet was laid in Hotchner's place, Reid felt like he'd run a marathon, but there was still work to do after managing that jumble of unresponsive limbs. He pulled up Foyet's shirt, exposing a chest that was mapped with scars, but hands long used to this kind of work stuck on pad after pad, wire after wire, until, with perfect swiftness, he switched the set of leads still attached to Hotchner for the set now attached to Foyet's sleeping, calm body with its set of unremarkable vital signs.

It was Hotchner who secured the Director to the bed and gagged him with gauze and medical tape. Spencer didn't even try to stop him. He deserved some revenge, Spencer thought. "Okay," he said, starting to strip off his lab coat. "Now we get to get you dressed."

The vehemence with which Hotchner pulled off his monitor leads wasn't surprising at all but Reid surprised himself by sneaking glances. It was tasteless. Tasteless, tactless, uncouth - and yet with the chance to look at Hotchner's bare legs, he took a glance and immediately chided himself. Now was not the time to like what he saw, if that time ever came. He turned his back for the other man to finish dressing in the scrubs he'd brought, and hopefully the flip-flops he'd brought in for "shower shoes" do - at least for him to get to the car.

"Scrubs and sandals," Hotchner snorted. "So much for lab safety."

"Let's just think about personal safety while you get to my car. As soon as we're out of here, somebody who knows how to plan is on our side."

"Seems like you've done pretty well here."

"...Yeah, well, I do some of my best work under extreme terror," he half-teased before motioning for Hotchner to follow him. "Come on. Let's get out of here. This part's the easy part."

It was even easier than Reid had expected. The walk to the elevator was simple enough - that was the floor that was perpetually empty, where Reid had actually discovered Hotchner to begin with. If they met anyone there, the plan would end immediately and Spencer's awareness was fixated on that knowledge but, without a single problem, the elevator went down to the ground floor.

For a single heartbeat, he couldn't believe it. The hardest part was done and it hadn't been hard at all. In the freedom of a split second, a spark of vindictiveness took over and he dropped the card that he'd been given - that secret card that let him up to the locked floor - there where anyone could find it and just walked out. Walked out, like it was a mall or a frozen yogurt shop or something that they were leaving. He put a neutral expression onto his face like it was just any other day. Nodded to the blonde woman that had come to work there a few weeks before, and just kept walking.

They had never counted on him to be brave. To dare to question or act against them. They had never planned on him to begin with. He was the unknown factor that had crept into their little experiment. And now he was happily breaking the experiment by removing the test subject long before time. He actually smiled as he unlocked the passenger side door for Hotchner. "Here. You sit here, and hold this."

"Just put it in the back seat."

"What? No. This is Boing; you're going to keep her safe," he said. "After all, I'm breaking you out. You owe me."

"Boing?"

"My lab rat. Take her." He shoved the bag into Hotchner's lap before closing the door on both Hotchner and his protests. Slightly drunk on his own power, he knew, but why did it matter? They were getting out.

"A lab rat."

Reid hadn't counted on the protests continuing once he climbed into the car.

"Yes, a lab rat."

"You were breaking high security protocols to break me out of there and you included plans to break out a lab rat."

"Well, two lab rats if you put it that way," Spencer countered. "You know, if you're going to complain, I can put you back. Or I can just let you out here so you can try to make your way yourself."

Hotchner rolled his eyes but Spencer could see a touch of a smile. He'd count it as a success.

Soon, they were on their way to the mall where Gideon had told him he'd be waiting. He remembered what he'd been instructed to do - recited it in his head just to make sure. "Park in the garage on any floor but the fourth," he'd been told. "Leave your suitcase between your car's front bumper and the wall. Go in, get to the third floor, through the food court, and take the bathroom hallway on the east side. Go past the bathrooms. There's a community meeting room that's never used. I'll be waiting there with new clothes for both of you. From there, we'll go through the back corridors and stairs to the fourth level and out to the parking garage. You two will have to hide in the back of the Jeep I've borrowed. It'll be tight, but it'll keep you out of sight until we get out of town."

But first, they had to get to the mall. Just driving was an exercise in paranoia, his self-confidence shriveling in the face of not knowing whether or not he was being followed. He tried to take the advice Han Solo had given to Chewbacca and just drive casual, but he felt like the world was looking at him - from the random guy who was buying a newspaper outside a service station to the woman walking about six dogs down the sidewalk.

"You're going to break your cover by looking around like a scared squirrel," Hotchner muttered.

Spencer grit his teeth. "If you weren't holding my rat, I'd smack you. Shut up."

"Staying undercover is what I do for a living--"

"Then you can tell me everything I did wrong after we're somewhere safe. For now, shut up before I find that extra syringe of what I used on the director."

There was no extra syringe. Spencer knew that. Hotchner didn't. The interior of the car fell silent except for the sounds of the road and, bit by bit, Spencer started to relax. Hotchner had given him a piece of information he hadn't had before. Staying undercover. Undercover for whom? He'd been arrested - what if he was an agent that had been privy to secrets and those had been leaked? Maybe he really had broken a criminal out of the lab.

But then he remembered the pain, what Hotchner had been through, whatever it was they'd forced him to forget. No, he couldn't doubt now. Getting him out was right.

He parked on the third level of the garage at the mall. Gideon had said any but the fourth and they were going to the third anyway. Maybe two guys going out for lunch, even if one was in scrubs, wouldn't draw so much attention if they just walked right in to the food court.

"I need to get something out of the trunk," he said as he pushed open the car door. "Then we go in."

Hotchner raised an eyebrow at him and Spencer had to frown and look away before he got caught in that line of thought that ended in how attractive the other man was. "Another pet?"

"No. The things I couldn't part with."

Soon enough, with the suitcase tucked away and the strap of his bag over his shoulder, the two of them were walking into the mall. Doctor Reid slapped a smile onto his face, putting himself back into that mindset he'd had when they were leaving the lab. He had to act like it was just another day and that the man beside him was a friend instead of a possible traitor to the country. For years, he thought it was a lie that people could be so attracted to the "bad boy" type. Now he was kicking himself for falling into that cliche.

Though suddenly, he was sure he'd fallen into much more than a cliche. Just a glance over at Hotchner showed him that the man hadn't been kidding at making his living at being undercover. None of this seemed to phase him as Spencer led him through the food court. The other man even picked up samples that were offered as they went. Spencer was sure that if he dared to eat anything right now, he'd throw up.

By the time they reached the hallway and the room they'd been directed to, Spencer was sure that he'd talked but he couldn't remember a single word he'd said. All that felt real was seeing Gideon's weathered face on the other side of the conference table when they walked in. "Good, you made it," he said without preamble. "All right, here, this bag is clothes for you, Spencer, and these are for you -- no, I don't need to know your name. Get dressed. Spencer, your suitcase is already in the car. I'll take your satchel. Now get dressed. I'll turn my back."

All business, just like Spencer expected. Taking orders brought him a level of comfort he hadn't been able to keep hold of through the day and all the days leading up to it. It was easy to finally turn off his brain and put on the clothes he'd been brought - jeans, which he never wore, a T-shirt, and a flannel shirt on top of that. He didn't even think about the fact that he was in the room with two other people. He just changed clothes and stuffed his own clothes into the bag the spares had been in, all in record time.

"Now both of you follow me - one of you will fit in the cargo space, the other in the back floorboard. I've got blankets to hide you both 'til we get out of town. I've already arranged a car swap."

"Did you work for the CIA?" Hotchner asked, and Gideon chuckled.

"Maybe in a past life. I just think every man needs to be prepared to have a way out of town if he needs one."

Only after Spencer was bent into the space between the front and back seat did he stop to wonder just what Gideon had done that he thought this kind of a getaway was necessary - and why Gideon's eyes had gleamed with enjoyment as he'd escorted them out to the borrowed Jeep Cherokee.


	9. Chapter 9

There hadn't been a request for all of them to keep silent, but they did. Hotchner laid in the fetal position, curled in the cargo area of the Jeep, listening to the sound of tires over asphalt. There were hints of music now and then. NPR, maybe, or a classical CD. That didn't surprise him in the least. Gideon, from what little he'd seen of the man, was the classical music type. He kept imagining him at some sort of Audubon society meeting.

The experience didn't get much better when they switched vehicles. He was relegated to the trunk while Spencer was, once more, wedged between the front and back seats. The worst thing was, he thought, that this wasn't his first time being transported in the trunk of a car. It was just the most cramped.

Aaron shifted, frowning, trying to get the jumper cables from under his leg. His heel hit the side of the car by accident and he cursed under his breath. That was definitely unintentional - but then he found himself blinded as a seat was folded down right in front of his face. "You okay in-- Sorry, you're used to the dark, aren't you? Here."

At least someone had relaxed. Once more, this skinny doctor was able to show his compassion and held up a hand to block the bright rays from his eyes. He was sure he'd never understand this kid, but he was still grateful. "Thanks," he muttered. "Didn't mean to kick the side of the car in here. I was trying to stop the jumper cables from digging into my thigh."

With a wince, Doctor Reid answered, "Yeah, that does sound like a pain in the leg. ...I probably fit better back there if you want to try to switch places."

"There's no way that's going to happen. Not without being conspicuous," the older man in front said. A veto from on high, it seemed, and Aaron shrugged.

"There are worse things than being in a trunk."

"Like being in a trunk and hungry?" Out of nowhere he could identify, a bag of chocolate chips was produced and offered toward him. "They're Boing's, but you can have some."

"Are you sure you want a guy hopped up on chocolate in the trunk?"

"Better you're hopped up on chocolate than have your growling stomach give us away," the good doctor returned and in a moment that appeared to surprise both of them, they shared a smile.

He'd noticed it before, how a smile could change the younger man's face. How it brought a light to his eyes, even with that huge bruise spreading across his cheek. As unlikely as it was, Aaron felt like he might have actually found one of the few good people in the world.

They talked quietly as the ride went on, both of them careful to keep their heads down for all there was no other traffic on the road. Eventually, the car slowed and they were warned, "It's going to get bumpy. Hold on."

It wasn't a pleasant ride for the rest of the distance to the cabin. The road was supposed to be gravel but time and rain had washed much of it to the sides, leaving holes and ruts that Gideon attempted to navigate but some jostling was unavoidable. Hotchner bounced off the floor where he laid more than once and was sure he'd have some interesting bruising by the next day. But soon enough they were pulling into a garage that shuttered closed behind them. "We've got to make this quick," Gideon said. "The solar panels on the roof keep the satellites from getting a good heat view inside but if they look close, they'll see you. So we're getting you downstairs."

The basement. Reid had expected that much. He gathered himself and his belongings, few as they were, out of the car as Gideon unlocked the door and motioned them in. "There are clothes for both of you - not much, but you've got the washing machine down there and a clothes line. A few things to keep you from being bored, and enough food for about two years."

"Your stash?"

"I can replace it," the older man said, waving it off. He led the two of them through the house and into the one bedroom. Immediately, Hotchner was raising his eyebrows.

"And exactly where are the stairs?"

Gideon gave him a scathingly incredulous look. "You think I'd have those out where everyone can see them?" The man opened a closet door instead and, at first, Hotchner could see nothing out of the ordinary. The floor was perfectly plain, the walls were normal, but at one end, Gideon pulled at a plank of flooring and the whole floor tilted upward - a perfectly invisible trap door. "It locks from underneath," he said. "Two deadbolts. With those locked, even if someone pulls on this, it doesn't move in the least. Now hurry up, get down there. Every moment you're upstairs is a moment that the satellites can see you. Go."

Reid, trusting, led the way. But Hotchner had to ask, "What about water? Air? Electricity?"

"Cabin's self-sufficient with the high-yield solar panels on the roof and a bank of batteries that power a water pump from a well, a water heater, an air circulation system, and the sewage goes into a septic tank. Nothing on the power grid or water system. Now get down there - hurry! I'll be back in a week."

Satisfied well enough, he went down the stairs and the trap door was closed behind him. He locked the deadbolts with his own hands, that much making him trust it. Only moments later, the car started in the garage and Gideon drove away. One week. One week in a basement. Just how much of an improvement over the hospital room was this?

But as soon as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. Here, at least, he wasn't tied down to the bed with chemicals being forced into his veins. He was stuck in a basement that, for a while, at least, he didn't dare come out of, but there was food, there was company, and perhaps most importantly of all, there were clothes that didn't look like they came out of a hospital.

Not even noticing what Doctor Reid was doing, he went immediately to the open closet he'd spotted and held up clothes against himself until he figured out that while he was taller than Gideon, he was narrower at the waist and most of the shirts would stretch to fit him. There was even a drawer of socks and underwear (he would not think about the fact that he was wearing someone else's underwear) and he'd been without those for far too long. Collecting an outfit that looked comfortable enough, he went into the bathroom and luxuriated.

There was a shower and he could shower unattended. There was a mirror and he could comb his hair to suit himself. When he dressed - in something that wasn't scrubs or a gown - it wasn't in clothing that he liked, but at least it was thicker and felt real. There were houseshoes waiting for him when he opened the bathroom door, and Reid was sitting in one of the armchairs, his rat on his lap nibbling on a bit of dried strawberry. "Good shower?" Reid asked and, with surprising ease, Aaron smiled.

"Very good shower." And that was when he felt his stomach flutter. The smile the younger man gave him was bright and, despite everything, somehow fearless. It lit his eyes, showed perfect teeth, and he was the picture of innocence sitting there with a friendly rodent clutching a chunk of berry.

It was utterly unbelievable that this kid - no, definitely not a kid he reminded himself - was exactly what he'd seemed. He'd said he was going to get Aaron out and to safety and somehow, there they were. In a paranoid's basement, locked in for a week, but if there was one thing Aaron knew, it was betrayal. Nobody with that kind of smile or those eyes could betray anyone. "So now," he said, forcibly changing his mind from where it'd landed. He was definitely allowed to be attracted to Doctor Reid, but now was not the time to pursue that - not in the basement of some random apocalypse preparer. "Now, maybe, you can tell me a little more about yourself."

"More about me?" he asked, brows raising. "Why?"

"You're a doctor of theoretical medicine," Hotchner said, "who managed to get suckered into something he had no idea about. That's interesting enough to ask about."

Spencer pulled a face, nose wrinkling. "Did you have to remind me?" he muttered. "That's the last thing I want to think about right now."

Aaron gave him a sympathetic look. "I get it. But we've got a week to kill and while I know you're a whiz at board games, I don't know much else. And I'd rather not be stuck with someone I can't get along with."

"Haven't we proven we can get along?"

"Then don't talk about work. Tell me about the rest of it."

Hotchner raised an eyebrow at the look Reid gave him - purely disbelieving. Reid utterly lacked an answer to what he'd been asked. Instincts kicked in. He cast his eyes over Reid's face, his posture, his eyes. Downcast, head bowed, brows lowered. He was looking at the rat, the floor, the arm of the chair, anywhere but at the other person in the room. Easy enough to read. There was a severe lack of self confidence in the good doctor. Outside work, he didn't know who he was or what to say about himself. He didn't see himself as a person as much as a doctor. A scientist. A brain. And that was one situation Hotchner knew better than to try to fix. Only the person in that situation could change it. But maybe, Hotchner thought, he could pave the way.

Freedom for freedom, he decided. It was only fair.

"Where'd you grow up?" he asked, providing an easier question to answer, and the answer came swiftly.

"Vegas."

"So you're a desert kid." Keeping himself obvious as he crossed the room, he lowered to sit in the other armchair, an endtable between them. Reid's gesture - flicking the plastic bag of dried strawberries toward him - was absently done, but it was still a gesture he took advantage of, picking out a slice to pop into his mouth. Sweet and tart at once. Good stuff.

"Yeah," he answered with a little smile. "And I'm banned from almost every casino in town."

"Card counting?"

"And roulette counting. And keno odds."

Hotchner laughed and was gratified to find Reid doing the same. Good, the kid (young man, he reminded again - just because Reid had a babyface was no reason to discount his age) still had some humour intact. "Nice. But why were you gambling?"

"Honestly?"

Hotchner nodded.

"To get back at my dad. He put my mom in a home. She's a paranoid schizophrenic and for a while, I blamed him. I figured we could've cared for her, the two of us, but he put her in a home and raised me himself. I get it, now, but at the time, I blamed him, so even though I was... way too young for casinos? I got emancipated minor status so I could go to college and be eligible for financial aid and as an emancipated minor..."

"You got to go into the casinos," Aaron filled in, nodding. When Reid was young, that probably would've worked on an 'okay, kid, but don't say a word to anybody' caveat. "But just how young were you when you went to college?"

"They wanted to accelerate me through school a lot faster but he made me stay in until I was sixteen, so I just... got revenge by getting through medical school and getting my doctorates really fast."

Aaron's brows raised. "A lot of your youth seems to involve revenge against your father."

Reid's lips pursed before he broke into a half-smile and laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does. Good thing you're a spy instead of a shrink or we'd go into some sort of Oedipal complex or something."

Laughing despite himself, he picked up two strawberry slices, one being popped into his own mouth as he gestured to Reid. "Nah, I'm more Jungian than Freudian." He tossed Reid the other slice and was surprised by him catching it in his mouth with a full, bright smile. Day one, he mentally marked. Day one, in captivity again, but at least here, he was able to smile.

In fact, companionship with one Doctor Reid was surprisingly easy. Reid had finally loosened up enough to talk and once he started talking, it was like the floodgates had opened. Aaron sat and listened to tales of childhood bullying, of visiting his mother and being recognised only most of the time, of his father pushing him into athletics even though he'd hated it. He'd heard about how college was the freedom he'd wanted and how he hadn't heard a word from his father since he'd become an emancipated minor, and what he felt surprised him. He envied Reid for that emancipated minor status. But as soon as that one full thought formed in his mind, he caught himself frowning in frustration.

Why did he envy that? The more he'd thought about it, the more he felt jealousy in him like fangs, tearing at memory that wasn't there. His jaw clenched as the jealousy became anger which was only interrupted by a light touch on the back of his hand.

"Hey-- Hey, um. What's-- Are you okay?" Reid asked.

After a deep breath, he nodded. "Yeah. We're just going to need to figure out some things about that drug of yours."

"God, I am so sorry."

"I don't blame you. You didn't know. And when you did know, you..." Trailing off, he motioned around them. "I'm not strapped to a bed. That, I can blame on you, and be glad of."

"I still owe you," he said, voice quiet and full of regret. "I'll figure out how to fix it. I swear."

"I don't doubt that for a minute."

"But," Reid went on, "there is something I kind of need to know."

It wasn't the first suspicion that had gone through his mind in all this, but it was tempered by trust. "All right."

"Just-- just what should I call you?"

He laughed under his breath. Of all the questions it could've been, that was not the one he expected. "Aaron. Call me Aaron."

"Aaron," Reid repeated, and then held out a hand - a hand unladen with rat. "I'm Spencer."

He met Spencer's hand halfway, fingers curling around the doctor's in a steady handshake. A subversive part of his mind reminded him of just how long, slender, and elegant those hands were. Perfect hands for the delicate chemical work he'd done for so long. Or perfect hands to play piano. Or--

Not here, he forced himself to think. Not here, not now.

"It's nice to share a basement with you, Spencer."


	10. Chapter 10

Boing's paws were perched happily on his fingers while Spencer thought. The way he'd opened up-- Well, he'd always known it was easier to talk to strangers. They didn't tend to judge and if they walked away with your secrets, who exactly would they tell? Nobody that was involved in the secrets, that was for sure. Still, as he reached for a berry, he said, "Your turn."

"My turn?" Aaron asked, a sliver of strawberry already in his fingers, and Spencer raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Yeah, your turn. You're some kind of spy, accused of treason. All I know is that your name is Aaron Hotchner, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't know that if I hadn't met you like I did. I'd probably get your, what, third cover name? Probably Angus MacGyver or something?"

"I don't have a mullet."

"And MacGyver didn't have one for all the series, either. So come on - you at least owe me, since I got you out. Did you commit treason?"

It was a question he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to. After all, what if the answer was yes? What if he actually had broke out a traitor instead of just petitioning someone over Director Foyet's head for the violations of the Geneva Conventions? Or did the Third Geneva Convention even apply? The US was in war, but did Hotchner have any role in the war? Every question he thought up had a hundred more tagging right on its heels.

He waited and watched as Hotchner considered, the slice of strawberry being turned over and over in his hands. "It's hard for me to tell you that. And before you say anything, I have to tell you that all of this, except my arrest, had to do with my assignment. I don't want to go into details, but I think I can say that from an outside position..." Aaron heaved a heavy sigh and Spencer felt that familiar sympathy strike. "I see why some agency decided to arrest me for treason. But I'm not sure why none of my people cleared this up."

"But you refused to tell them about it," Spencer filled in, "so they decided to... They were using my drug to try to divorce your sense of propriety from telling them your memories. That has to be it." He sighed. That filled in one piece, at least.

"Except it didn't work. I've got holes in my memory instead."

There was a sinking feeling in his stomach. Holes in Hotchner's memory. That really wasn't something his drug was supposed to do. And that added a whole new set of factors to test for. It was obvious that he'd been on the right track, but that was not what he'd intended at all. "How far back?" he asked, his voice sounding weak even to him.

"Not sure. Childhood, I think."

Childhood.

It was as if his body had just been doused with cold water. He wasn't sure how old Aaron was, but older than him, certainly (not much older than him, though, judging by his lack of wrinkles, how his skin was still resilient, the sheer strength in his body). That his drug, through whatever exposure, was affecting memories back to childhood, was terrifying. He hadn't been able to target the drug for one thing, so an effective chemical marker would help, but that didn't fix the main issue. What miscalculation had he made, and--

"And Gideon doesn't have a whiteboard down here," he sighed. He certainly wasn't going to start writing on the walls. But he did have books in his bag. He hated to do it, but if he wrote between the lines, not only would his work be quickly enough done but maybe even partially concealed until the time when he could implement further testing.

Already, he was considering formula changes and possible additions to the mixtures he'd made - until he felt a touch on his shoulder and Hotchner was moving. "Your rat's making a break for it."

"Oh shit, Boing! I've got to make a safe place for her to wander - being in that cage for so long's not good for her," he grumbled as, all arms and legs, he followed Aaron's lead, predicting Boing's trail through the shelves and soon scooping her up as she investigated the corner of a cardboard box. "Come here, you. You're going to have to be patient for a while. And I'm going to tell you this even though you can't understand a word I say."

There was a snort of a laugh and Spencer looked up to see Aaron smiling. "Come on, put her in that cage for a little bit and we'll figure something out. Nothing better to do down here."

"Board games."

"This is actually something important to do. At least one of us should get some exercise."

Spencer felt a swell of gratitude at that answer. "Let's forage around a little and see what Gideon's got around here that we can turn into a rat pen."

Forage they did, and while Spencer was glad for the assistance, his mind kept going. He had no reason to but he believed what Aaron had told him. There was a chance - a really good chance - that the man was a fantastic liar and Reid had already proven to himself that he wasn't the best judge of character. He'd thought Director Foyet was a decent person, after all. Some lessons seemed to require experience to teach them well.

One plus as they searched was that Spencer found a cache of notebooks and, unapologetic, he took one for himself. It would help him to be able to write things down and organise his thoughts, as well as go through formulae that might help the future of what he knew could be a good drug if he just had the chance to refine it.

"Found some plastic sheeting," Hotchner said. "And duct tape."

"Well, it's a start -- I've got some cardboard. That should do."

It was obvious Gideon had never intended his basement to be a rat sanctuary. If anything, he'd safeguarded it against rats being able to get in at all, which meant that anything they did for Boing was going to be makeshift. It spoke well for Hotchner, Spencer thought, that it didn't take them much more than half an hour to make a rat corral that matched the top of the desk that had been against the wall - one of pieces of 'comfort' furniture that were in the space.

Really, the basement was comfortable enough. Most of the space was taken up by the shelves that were arranged much like library shelves full of food packages, but to one end were the armchairs they'd already inhabited, the desk and desk chair which they hadn't, and one large couch. The lamps to one end, Gideon had told him, were full-spectrum lamps. Only now that he was living in this basement could he really understand just how far his mentor's paranoia stretched. Before, he'd been able to wave it off, but now he was looking at the sheer scope of it and it put a twist in his stomach.

It certainly explained the condition of the apartment Gideon lived in. All of his money had gone into this space. The solar panels, the well, the air filtration, all of this food and the bottled water - in case the well got contaminated, Spencer figured - none of it was cheap. Spencer himself lived frugally, but he'd never be able to afford anything like this. For a moment, he found himself hoping his mentor hadn't gotten loans to pull this off and was counting on the banks going down with the apocalypse.

"God, Gideon," he muttered under his breath, "just what is going on in your head..."

"Re-- Spencer?"

Once more, he found himself having to be reminded that he wasn't alone. "Yeah?"

"Something wrong?"

"No," he answered swiftly. Too swiftly, he chided himself, and sighed. "No, there's... I just... I always took him saying that he was prepared as... you know, a weather radio and a basement door and maybe a cardboard box or two of canned food and water bottles. Not... this." Spencer motioned around them. "This is... This is a TV show on TLC airing alongside... whatever that couple is with all those kids and the people who fill their houses with newspapers."

For a few moments, Spencer almost lost himself to his thoughts again only for Aaron to put in, "Ever seen Tremors?"

"Tremors?"

"Old B-type movie, something of a cult classic? Kevin Bacon, the guy from Family Ties, and Reba McEntire? Big worms under the ground that they called--"

"Graboids," they said in concert and Spencer felt himself lighten up enough to laugh.

"Right, this is like Burt and Heather's house without the guns."

"So, see, he could be worse. There's no elephant gun under glass in the corner," Aaron said and Spencer smiled. How was it that this spy could actually make him smile so much? He relaxed a little, feeling better about the whole situation.

"There's one more thing. I don't mean to disturb you," Hotchner said, "but I can't help but notice that there's only one couch down here."

"Yeah?"

"Where are we supposed to sleep?"

"Oh, uh, the couch folds out," he answered. They were going to have to share. He wished he'd thought of that sooner. Like before he realised how attractive Aaron was, or maybe before he'd hatched this entire plan and could've asked for an air mattress or something. But now, unless he was willing to sleep on a concrete floor, he was going to have to share a fold-out bed with someone he was attracted to.

In any other circumstance, he would've found the prospect thrilling in a way he'd have to keep quiet about. He supposed he still did. It was an excuse to be close to him. But the proximity had such a high possibility to become awkward. He bit his lips. "You know, I could just curl up in one of the chairs. I've done it before--"

"I'm not going to make you not sleep in the bed," Aaron said, holding up his hands. "But I am going to ask you to forgive me if I... do things in my sleep."

"Things?" Spencer echoed. "What things?"

"For instance - if I end up with my arm over you. Or things like that."

There was a flutter in his stomach that moved its way up to his throat. He had to kill it before it became a telltale smile and said, instead, "Only if you forgive me for the same things. I'm a restless sleeper. ...And I tend to have nightmares. So, um, if I start thrashing around, just... ignore me? Or wake me up or something."

"Or something?"

"Whatever it takes to get me to shut up."

Hotchner shook his head but Spencer shrugged. "Sometimes it's hard to snap me out of them."

"I'll remember," Hotchner promised, and Spencer gave him a small smile. Day one, he thought, and this was going to take a while. They needed to settle in. Find a rhythm. Figure out how they were going to spend their days and Spencer needed to know if he was going to be spending more time questioning himself or avoiding his attraction. Attraction never ended well, and neither did self-questioning, but maybe if he turned his mind toward his work, he could make it through without embarrassing himself.

And they also needed to decide, after this week, just how long they were going to spend in the rather featureless basement. He didn't have nearly enough books to keep him entertained, though he did at least have Boing and a notebook. It was a start, and he was going to owe Gideon so many notebooks.


	11. Chapter 11

Spencer laid still and silent, trying to will himself to sleep even though his eyes seemed to be stuck open. The evening had gone smoothly enough. Boing enjoyed her new corral while the two humans put together a meal out of the dried and canned smorgasbord, and then they played a board game (Ticket to Ride, which neither of them had played before but both took to quickly). He'd had pajamas packed, luckily enough, but Hotchner had made do with a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that had been in the closet he'd located earlier.

But now, with the lights out and the basement dimly illuminated by the Indiglo-esque light from the room's control panel - a lucky find that kept Spencer from being petrified by the otherwise pitch-blackness that surrounded them - he felt far too aware of where he was.

Night was always the worst for him. Night was when he laid still and replayed every bad thing that had happened in his life, knowing now what he should have done, what he could have done, or making plans about what he would do if any of the old consequences ever came back into his life again. Now, though, the plans were stretching forward. He had broken someone out of governmental custody and even if that someone was innocent, he'd still committed a crime. If he was found, he'd likely end up in prison, and he knew what happened to men like him in prison. It was one thing to be consensually bisexual but something else to face the possibility of giving in to unwanted sex for bodily safety.

Then he had to wonder, well, what if he got away with it? He knew he'd never be able to see his mother again. But Penny - well, that would be easy enough for her to do. She knew enough about proxies that it'd probably take her all of ten minutes to contact him through personally-secured channels. She could tell his mother he was fine. His mother did always like her and had never understood why they'd split up. When it came down to it, they'd just made better friends than lovers.

And his dad wouldn't know either - but he didn't care what his dad thought. It was childish to hold a grudge but he did. He held that grudge like a baseball bat, and if there was anything in all of this to be pleased with, it was the lack of phone calls from his father from now on.

Yet, even as he thought of all of these eventualities, he knew the train of thought for what it was: a distraction from the warm body maybe two feet away from him. He'd slept in a bed with someone before, even with someone he was attracted to, but it had usually been a one-off thing. Everybody studying in one person's apartment and it got too late to go home, so they'd ended up asleep wherever they landed. One night. One. But he was looking at weeks. It was one of the things they'd discussed during the board game. They both knew that laying low, being off the radar for a while, was best. That if they could keep their heads down, then eventually the people on Director Foyet's side would think they'd gone a lot farther away than they had.

Hotchner had put forth a plan to make a call to his people sometime in the third week so they'd have time to plan for the two of them by the sixth week. Spencer hadn't had the experience to gainsay him so he'd just agreed to it. And that meant that he was going to be sleeping beside a superspy that he happened to find excruciatingly attractive for six weeks.

As he groaned and shoved his face into the pillow, he resigned himself to having blue balls for the rest of his life.

\----

Aaron was looking at his watch at eight AM, knowing he'd slept, even knowing he'd dreamed, but his mind was devoid of any knowledge of what his dreams had been about. He didn't know what it meant. If it was a consequence of the drug or if it was normal. Some people didn't remember what they dreamed. He usually remembered hints here and there, but now, how could he know?

It wasn't the ideal way to awaken, but there were a few good things about this dark, digitally-lit morning. There were two feet pressed against his legs, slightly chilly, and he knew just whose feet those were. He smiled as he turned his thoughts to Spencer Reid. Six weeks. Maybe, he thought, that would give him time to really find out about the young doctor, to get to know him.

Before he was brought into this whole thing, he'd wished for companionship. Maybe Spencer wasn't used to the lifestyle Aaron led, but someone with Spencer's kind of bravery was someone Aaron could definitely see himself coming home to. He wasn't ignorant of just how much Reid had risked by taking him out of that research facility, not to mention how he'd knocked out that asshole director and then had had the temerity to make Aaron hold his rat.

But the young man was just that: young. He had opportunities, especially with that brain of his. Would he even be willing to give that up to be the equivalent of a house husband? Aaron knew he wouldn't. It would be a safer life, sure, but to hang up the position he'd fought for just to be someone's companion was unthinkable.

Maybe, though, he thought as he pulled himself reluctantly out of the bed, it would at least be a companionable six weeks. Reid hadn't shown any hints of possibly being attracted, but a few gentle questions and he'd find out if he had a chance or if he'd find himself exiled to sleeping in the bathtub.

Heading into the bathroom, he gave the tub a once-over before deciding he'd slept in worse.

For the next week, that was how most mornings went. Aaron was always the first awake, the first into the bathroom, and when he came out, Spencer was awake and rubbing at his eyes. He wasn't sure what it was about Spencer's hair but it always came out in the wildest shapes after he'd slept. Loops and curls would stick up at odd angles, locks would hang into his eyes, and Aaron found it one of the most endearing sights he'd ever seen.

Infallibly, when Reid came out of the bathroom and joined him for breakfast, his hair was damp and combed into order. From there, the days had a bit of unpredictability. Sometimes, Reid would sit and play with his rat, or sometimes Aaron would while Reid plugged a pair of headphones into a CD player and wrote in fits and spurts. Aaron peeked now and then and saw what he thought were chemical formulae and diagrams, equations and predictions, and he knew just what it was Reid was doing. Even now, he was determined to fix what it was he thought he'd broken. It made for lonely days. There were cards, board games, and a rat, but there were only so many times one person could play solitaire.

The morning Gideon was supposed to arrive was the first anomaly. When Aaron first awakened, his eyes still closed, he became aware of having someone in his arms. His company was limited, so he knew who it had to be, and the still warmth told him that Spencer was still sleeping.

He had been preparing himself to wake up to an arm tossed over the other man at some point, but he'd been expecting Spencer's back to be toward him. That wasn't how reality had panned out. Spencer was facing him, his entire body curled close, as if he was trying to hide. From what, Aaron couldn't even begin to guess, but his arms tightened protectively. He was rewarded with a soft sound between a whimper and a sigh as Spencer curled even closer.

He couldn't get out of bed now. Not with Reid practically depending on him. And he didn't even really want to. It was a rare opportunity and he would seize it. He didn't even realise when he drifted back to sleep - something he'd not done in years.

Wakefulness came again when Reid stirred, carefully edging himself out of Aaron's arms and toward the bathroom. Aaron let him go since he was on the way and he could see, in the dim light, a wince on Reid's face. "Sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"S'okay. Means you get to make breakfast today, though."

"Price of waking up first?"

"Something like that."

"Gideon's supposed to come by today. ...I hope he brings a rat cage and some lab blocks."

The bathroom door closed but Hotchner still spoke, "I think you like the rat more than you like me."

There was a silence for a few moments and Aaron was sure he'd overstepped. Reid's answer didn't do much to reassure him, "That's kind of weird to hear."

"It's just that I actually talk back when someone talks to me. I don't just sit there and wiggle my nose and look cute," he said as he flopped back onto the bed. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to go into this now. The words had just seemed so natural when he'd said them. What had he expected, he wondered. Had he thought that Reid would actually say that he liked him better? Technically he'd known the rat longer, and when it came down to it, he'd broken both of them out of the lab where they both surely would've died.

"If I come out of here," Reid said, "and you're wiggling your nose..."

Laying flat on his back, Aaron raised his eyebrows at the words. That, he hadn't been expecting at all. Was Spencer actually flirting with him? "I wasn't going to," he returned, "but now that you've mentioned it?"

The laughter was all the reason he needed for his mood to lighten. It was heartening, even if he wasn't sure just what this meant. He only knew what he hoped it meant, and that was enough to hang a little hope on. The following days would be a lot less boring if they were mutually interested in each other. Of course, it'd mean they owed Gideon new sheets at the least, but Aaron would gladly foot the bill for new sheets if it meant he got to hold the slender, elegant, delectable body of Spencer Reid in his arms.

The shower came on and he groaned. Now he had the mental image of that body naked and wet to go along with where his mind was headed and he cursed under his breath. Now was not the time.

He was getting up and starting to choose clothes for the new day (thankfully there was a washer/dryer in the basement which meant that he could have clean clothes regularly) when he started to hear footsteps overhead. Surely it was Gideon, but he felt awareness hit all of his nerves at once. After the ambush in his apartment, he was not going to be taken by surprise again.

As best he could with the shower running, Aaron tracked the footsteps through the house above. If he remembered the upstairs layout correctly, they were going from the kitchen, around and to the bedroom where their staircase led up to the closet. The route was direct, and that gave him a degree of hope. A man with a bolt-hole like this surely wouldn't share the knowledge of exactly where the entrance was with everyone.

"Guys."

The voice was muffled through the door.

"Let me in - got some clothes for you, some rat food. And news."

Rat food. Definitely Gideon. Aaron went up the stairs, hating the fact that he was still unarmed despite knowing Gideon had done well by them. He threw both deadbolts and hinged the door open, the older man's weathered face not quite a welcome sight but better than anything else he could've seen. The stairs were only wide enough for one at a time, so he moved down them quickly, giving the man room. "Reid's in the shower," Aaron said. "What's the news?"

"Well, they're looking for you. Got missing persons reports on the news - for Spencer, not for you."

Aaron shrugged. He hadn't expected to hear anything was about him.

"The lab is offering a reward for his return."

He felt himself go cold as granite, turning to face Gideon. "Going to take them up on it?" he asked, no humour in his voice. Gun or not, he could take the man. He was a professor type. Even in his weakened condition, Aaron knew that it wouldn't be much of a challenge at all to make sure the guy hit the floor.

Gideon met his gaze and held it. It was a silent battle of wills, and it was one Aaron could see Gideon hadn't anticipated. Aaron could see it in his mannerisms - how he'd figured he'd be Spencer's advocate, how he'd figured Spencer would be his to take care of, but Aaron was between him and the bathroom door, and the shower was still running. Aaron was between him and Spencer, and he'd stay that way until he was sure of the man. Before, none of his instincts had been telling him much of anything, but now there was something he just couldn't bring himself to trust.

"He's a friend," Gideon said, his voice pitched low, and Aaron listened for nuances. "It just means you're going to have to be careful - people are going to be looking for him. I'd say you need to stay down here until people start dredging bodies of water."

"We've already decided on a time frame," Aaron answered, gratified to see Gideon hear the unspoken mistrust. The other man nodded.

"Good. --Oh, I brought breakfast. Hope fast food is fine with you."

Aaron nodded. "Thanks. He'll be out in a minute. Here, let me get you a chair." He wasn't ungrateful. Aaron knew that. But something that he'd been too exhausted and maybe too wired to notice on the way out of town was now bothering him. A part of him wanted to blame it on the drug he'd been pumped full of but there was no way for him to be sure. If the memories were gone, they were gone, and he knew with absolute certainty that he'd never seen this man in person before that day at the mall.

There it was again, he thought as he pulled out the desk chair and placed it in the circle with the armchairs, leaving the couch folded out. Limited seating. He hoped Gideon got the message that he wasn't necessarily welcome. His basement or not, Aaron couldn't abide his presence for much longer than one day - hopefully only a few hours in this one day. But the fact that he'd actually thought in the words 'in person.' That seemed to hint that there was something he'd been forced to forget, or maybe that had only faded with time. No matter which was the case, he was going to think on it for a good long while.

Reid came out of the shower dressed and damp and smiled immediately upon seeing Gideon sitting there. They greeted each other with friendship and Aaron let them have it, settling to eat. He trusted Gideon at least to have not poisoned the food since Spencer was going to be eating from the same bag.

They talked enthusiastically, Gideon giving Reid the news and asking about how long they were going to be staying. Reid was the one who told him six weeks and Aaron hid his frown behind his food. He'd hoped to keep that quiet but censoring their conversation was out of the question. Still, even with the gift of fitting clothing and rat food - no cage, for all Spencer had hoped - Aaron was glad to see the man go. With the door firmly locked behind him, Aaron let out a breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

He had no reason, no logical reason he could name, to mistrust the man. He'd been nothing but decent toward both him and Spencer, and all for Spencer's sake, but that distrust just wouldn't shake. There were questions he needed to ask. Questions he couldn't define just yet. And as he looked at Spencer, still smiling from Gideon's visit, he had to wonder just how he was going to ask those questions without offending the person he was closeted with for the next six weeks.

The turn of his mood must've been obvious, though, because less than five minutes had passed before Spencer had a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," Aaron answered. "I'm fine. I'm just thinking. Something's feeling not quite so good about all this."

"Having a Star Wars feeling?" Reid had Boing out of her cage and was feeding her one of the lab blocks that Gideon had brought.

"That sounds about right. I'm trying to figure out just where the mynocks are."

Spencer was quiet for a few moments. Aaron was sure he wasn't going to say anything. For all he understood that Doctor Reid hadn't been so very social, he was sure that his unspoken words had been heard loud and clear. When the doctor finally did speak, he was sure he was right.

"You know, for some reason," he'd began, "I never thought some kind of superspy would understand all these movie references."

Aaron went with it. "What, you didn't think I watched movies?"

"I don't think anybody imagines James Bond having a movie night. Especially with things like Star Wars and Tremors."

"If we get out of here..." He turned to look at Reid, meeting his eyes and being reminded yet again how warm and bright the other man's eyes could be. "If we get out of here, I promise that I'll spend at least one evening watching movies with you."

There was another silence, but this time, with Aaron watching him, he saw that it was incredulous. "Even if I pick out Star Trek?" There was an eagerness in Spencer's face, as if nobody had ever offered to spend so much time with him without asking him to do their homework. It fit with the rest of what he'd surmised from Reid's attitudes. Not very social. Seldom included with others his age. Reid had told him about his father pushing him into things - which spoke to the idea that he was basically a social misfit. He'd been a geek, his mind in science and hopeful futures while his reality was barely tolerable on all fronts.

His heart went out to Spencer, finding the idea more than a suitable distraction from his concerns over Gideon. He now knew more about Reid than he had ten minutes before, and that he would be nothing but glad about. "Depends on which Star Trek. Give me Voyage Home and First Contact and I'll steal your popcorn."

"Are you serious?"

He smirked as he reached out to take Boing from Spencer's hands and place her on his own shoulder. "It'd be no tribble at all."


	12. Chapter 12

Spencer knew that for the last week of their confinement, he'd been the difficult one to live with. He'd not been very social - as if he ever was. He'd mostly had his head in the work that needed to be done, or that he thought needed to be done. The truth was, he'd realised not that long ago, that there was no purpose in working in theory. He could theorise from dawn to dusk and be no closer to the truth without testing, and he had no way to test anything in this basement. He only had Boing and Hotchner -- Aaron, he corrected himself. And there was no way he was going to test on either one of them. Aaron had already been hurt enough and Boing was his pet now.

So he had two notebooks full of equations and hypotheses but none of them were worth anything until he was in a lab with materials where he could at least put the mixtures together and see if they even reacted as he thought they would. He was certain he was right, but nothing was worth anything until there was evidence before his eyes.

Yet, all while he'd worked, Aaron had been there, quiet and reading or playing solitaire or even playing with Boing. For someone who had cursed the rat when he'd first found out he wasn't the only one being broken out, he had bonded with the rodent quite well. It made Spencer smile just to think about it. They'd worked well together while they'd made Boing's corral and even now, while he hunched over his notebook, pretending to write, Aaron was sitting in the floor because the floor was a better workspace than the little endtable between the armchairs. He was wielding an exacto knife and superglue, piecing together cardboard into rodent-sized boxes.

Maybe he was just occupying himself much like Spencer was doing with all of this busywork, but maybe, just maybe, he was honestly invested in all of this. It made him bite his lips, made his pencil still.

Aaron could be invested. He was sure of that. Sure, he could be invested, but he couldn't forget the way he'd treated Gideon when he'd visited, bringing in clothes and food and news from the outside world. He'd heard them talking while he was still in the bathroom, but their tones had been low, one dark, one seemingly oblivious, and he'd known the last one was purely Gideon. But that meant that Aaron's voice had been the dark, slightly threatening tone, and he'd gone absolutely silent when Spencer had come out to talk to his mentor.

What did that mean? How was he supposed to react to someone that had treated his friend so...

Well, how had he treated Gideon? He hadn't been outright cruel, that was obvious, but he had been cold. There, that was the word - cold. Why? Gideon had done nothing to him except offer the use of his basement and even bring him clothing that suited much better than the spares of Gideon's that were down here. (Spencer was not oblivious to how much better jeans without pleats in the front looked on Aaron's body. He just reminded himself not to notice.)

But this was Aaron he was thinking about. Sure, he'd only known him for a matter of weeks, maybe a month, but he had the feeling that everything Aaron did was deliberate. And that left him in quite the conundrum. What was he supposed to do now? Could he act the same around Aaron after that cold shoulder?

He turned halfway, looking down at where Aaron was holding two smallish boxes of cardboard together, waiting for the glue to take hold, and he couldn't help smiling. That was definitely not an everyday thing that a superspy did, but Aaron just looked so natural sitting in the floor clad in jeans and a T-shirt and sock feet, building things out of cardboard. Like a school project, almost, and suddenly he could see Aaron as a husband, as a father. As someone who lived the white picket fence life that was a practical impossibility, now, for either one of them.

Shoring himself up, he forced a smile to his face and closed the notebook as he stood. "So what's up?" he asked.

"Just a big flat platform doesn't seem like fun," Aaron said and Spencer bit his lips, the smile becoming more genuine. "So I got some box sides and a knife, found a ruler... Now at least Boing will have a house."

"I've got to ask," he said, forgetting his own doubts. "Do you really like her or are you just... trying not to be bored?"

Aaron's brows raised. "A little of both? There isn't much to do down here."

That, Spencer couldn't deny. He nodded.

"But I also never realised how intelligent rats could be. I swear sometimes she looks at me and she's plotting something."

"And you'd kno-- Sorry, that was tasteless." Spencer winced. Of all the bad jokes to make, his brain had instantly given him once about Aaron's background. Silently cursing himself, Spencer turned away and raked a hand through his hair. Those weren't the memories he'd wanted to stir up - if those memories were still there at all. He frowned further. Everything came back to what he'd unintentionally wrought on Aaron's mind.

Spencer nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand grasped his shoulder. "You second-guess yourself too much," Aaron said. "There's such a thing as a bad joke, but you act like if I'm going to turn around and beat you to a pulp for it."

"I--"

"No, listen - I owe you a lot. I put a lot of trust in you for you to get us out here, out of that lab. Put a little trust in me. I'm not going to hurt you."

The promise bumped into some bad memories of Spencer's as he heard it, his stomach making one queasy lurch. "I'm- I mean, I-- No offense? But I think I... I might wait to see if that comes true."

Aaron nodded. "I have time to prove it to you."

He had a point and Spencer wasn't going to debate it. Everything Aaron had said earlier was the truth. It had taken a lot of trust, but now, they didn't have the same scanty time limit. They had five more weeks, and that was more than enough time for things to be proven right or proven wrong. With a try at a smile, he nodded, letting himself have a little hope that Aaron wouldn't break his word.

"So how can I help?" he asked instead of pursuing the subject further and Aaron pointed to pieces that had yet to be cut out. Easy enough for him to do, or so he thought until Aaron was washing the cut on his left first finger. The superglue, it seemed, came in handy for more than cardboard. Still, he wore a bandage for the sake of padding as he left the construction to Aaron and worked on dinner instead.

Starting then, Spencer made a conscious effort to be a better companion even if he still had questions. Aaron wasn't cold to him. His face didn't fall into that closed-off blankness. His eyes didn't go hard as stone. It was even more of a confusion, but he had to admit that he liked those days when he found himself shoulder to shoulder with Aaron, either pointing out something in a book or, as they did now and then, playing one of the board games that were stashed away on a shelf that hadn't been touched until they'd touched it.

He couldn't help a little excitement when their hands would brush or when he'd catch Aaron watching him. The smile on Aaron's face in those instances would put butterflies in his stomach and warmth in his cheeks. It was that hope again. Hope he didn't even like but, privately, he treasured. 

Some mornings, he woke to the feeling of Aaron carefully withdrawing his arms from around him. It started the day in such a pleasant way, making him feel like he could stay there in the basement forever. That made it all the more bitter when, the morning before Gideon was due to visit again, Spencer woke to find himself alone.

It started as a creeping feeling. He usually woke up to being alone in the bed, or almost alone, but there was always a vague sense of warmth behind him. Today, the bed felt like ice and, frowning, Spencer sat up.

There wasn't a sound in the basement beyond his own breathing. The shower wasn't running and there wasn't a light beyond that greenish-blue glow from the control panel.

Panic shot through him as he sat up and fought to turn on lights. His blood was cold with terror. Something had happened to Aaron, it had to have-- But he stopped himself. What if nothing had happened? What if Aaron had just decided it was time to stop waiting and had left? He was, after all, a spy (no, that was what he'd presumed, but Aaron hadn't denied it), so just walking away was par for the course. But leaving like that, without a word?

Fear and anger took turns, changing him by heartbeat from freezing cold to burning heat, as he started a search, trying to puzzle out just what Aaron had taken with him on his way out the door. He found the makeshift pajamas in the laundry bag and rolled his eyes at the thought that at least the asshole was courteous enough to put his dirty laundry where the dirty laundry went. "What a great farewell," he muttered. "Thanks for putting yourself in danger, now do my laundry."

He was still growling under his breath when he went to feed Boing, pulling out a lab block and a little dried fruit to put into her cage. And there, on top of said cage, he found a note that Aaron had left. He grabbed it, forgetting the food he'd just prepared.

"Taking a walk; there's a phone call I need to make. I'll be back with breakfast," he read, and Spencer rubbed a hand over his face. Relief went through him. He'd gotten angry for nothing, but the relief was followed by stomach-twisting worry. What if something happened to him while he was out? And he'd bring back breakfast? That meant Aaron also had his wallet. If he was found, whoever found him would know that they were together.

This morning was not going to be kind to him, he decided as he slid to the floor to hug his knees. He'd not felt so sick since the once he got hangover-inducing drunk in school. "'Least I didn't end up in a panic attack."

He'd always hated it when those hit. No, no panic attack today. Just the beginnings of what he was sure was going to become one hell of a migraine by the time Aaron got back.

It was cooler in the floor so he stayed there for a while, knowing that reducing his temperature would help a little with the impending pain. He loved Boing, but she could wait on her food for a little while. He lost track of time while he sat there on the floor, his eyes closed, all of his consciousness focused on the rhythm of his breathing.

With time and patience, he managed to edge the pain away a little. Enough that he could stand, feed his rat, and start turning off lamps again. He always considered it one of his life's great ironies that he was afraid of the dark and yet he was afflicted with light-reactive migraines. The last thing he did before going back to bed was put together a makeshift icepack from a plastic zipper bag, some ice cubes from the freezer, and a towel.

He hated it when this happened to him. Nothing made him feel more useless than having to lay and do nothing for hours until the pain abated. Of course he could count on the stress to get to him at last, but he had hoped that it wouldn't. A futile hope.

Spencer laid there in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness, very aware of every one of his heartbeats, slow and thankfully regular. He couldn't quite measure his pulse but he could feel every one at his temple like the thump of a bass drum. He was lost in the rhythm, detesting that he was reminded of the scene in Dirty Dancing between Johnny and Baby where the tango was compared to a heartbeat. Of everything he wanted to think of right now, ballroom dancing was not on the list.

In the middle of one of his many chiding thoughts came an interruption - a soft thump on the floor above. And then another. Footsteps, it had to be. And that meant that Aaron was back, or, God, he hoped that was what he meant.

Reluctant, he sat up and watched the door at the head of the steps, anxiety growing even as it lifted - but then as the feet and legs began to descend, the tension eased. It was him. Only him, and he closed and locked the door behind him. Spencer held up a hand to stall him on his way down when he saw Aaron's mouth start to open to speak. "Quiet," he whispered. "Migraine."

Aaron stopped himself before he said a word and nodded, removing his shoes there on the stairs. Sock feet, Spencer realised, and it was disastrous. If he hadn't been eyebrow-deep in hopeless love already, that would've done it. He was so busy berating himself that he barely noticed Aaron sitting on the bedside, a paper bag placed on the floor. When the other man spoke, it was in a breath. "I brought pastries. We can wait on them until you feel better. Let me refresh your ice pack."

His thoughts of lists came back to him. On the list of things he expected from Aaron Hotchner, this kind of gentleness was not on it at all, yet here he was, refreshing the ice pack and bringing in a cold washcloth to put on his forehead. As much as he hated that it was necessary at all, he was still grateful. He even lost count of the hours he laid that way, the ice pack being changed as necessary, cold washcloths being brought again and again, and the rest of the time, Aaron sat and stroked his hair.

This was not helping his crush at all.

At last, though, he could sit up and he did, leaning himself against the back of the couch. Aaron's response was to hand him a strawberry danish. "Take it easy," he murmured.

Spencer nodded. "How did the phone call go?"

Unwrapping a muffin for himself, Aaron answered, "They're glad to hear we're alive. I gave them our location and they said they'd pick us up to take us to a more secure location."

"...More secure than Gideon's underground bunker?"

"They also say that the search efforts for you have fallen off the media. It's been two weeks. Other, newer stories have taken precedent, so this actually bodes well for us. It means less people will think about the news if anyone sees you while we're on the move."

"Okay... so far so good. Anything else?"

"One thing."

The reluctance in Aaron's voice was audible and Spencer looked over with worry settling in his stomach. "All right."

"Apparently Foyet blew his top like Vesuvius. Joe Normal off the street won't be looking for you, but he will be."

"Yeah, that's not surprising at all," Spencer admitted with a sigh. "But it's scarier than Joe Normal."

"It should be. Foyet's a loose cannon wherever he is - my people reminded me about him while I was talking to him. He only has the position he has because of people who seem to owe him favours." Aaron bit into his muffin at last and Spencer turned his words over in his mind. Just what had Foyet done?

"At least we're safe enough here, right?"

"For now," the other man agreed. "And we won't be here much longer. Just long enough to really fall off the radar."

Just a few weeks ago, Spencer hadn't imagined living in a basement. It had quickly become a great idea. Now, he was finding himself relieved at the thought of falling off the radar. It was weird, he decided, how much the human mind could cope with under this kind of duress. Nervousness still gnawed at him, though, and he found himself looking to Aaron with hope. "We're going to get out of this, aren't we? It's going to be okay?"

Aaron lifted a hand to his cheek and Spencer felt himself sway toward it with a dizzy feeling. "It's going to be okay."

For no reason at all, Spencer smiled. He believed him. It was probably stupid, but he believed every word that came out of Aaron's mouth, and silently he prayed that that trust wouldn't come back to bite him like it always did.

\----

"So they're staying in the cabin."

"Right. For at least a few more weeks. They're holed up."

"I think you mean they're sitting ducks. But we've got time - time to make sure the plan is airtight."

"You think you're going to be able to be that patient?"

There was a low, dark chuckle. "Probably not."


	13. Chapter 13

His office had become a cave. In the moments where his brain would distract itself from the plans he had been trying to weave, he had tried on other terms but they hadn't stuck. The word 'cave' seemed to intimate something dark, foreboding, but organic - constantly growing and shifting with the slow drips of water that would deposit the barest hints of minerals as they dripped and where they fell.

There were no such drips in his office but in the low light that best suited his mood, there was something of an organic feel to the space, even with the institutional, heavy duty desk and the cold steel of the filing cabinets. Manmade things tended to have straight, clean lines but the furniture in this cool, dark place no longer had that generic perfection. There were dents in the metal of those filing cabinets. The surface of his desk was stained - coffee here, jam there, things better not thought about there. There were stalagmites of paper growing up from every flat surface and when his computer monitor was on, they cast amorphous shadows on the walls.

Children often saw monsters in shadows. Even into adulthood, people saw monsters in the dark places in the world. And this - this cave of his own making - housed a monster who had built himself from the day he was born.

That evening, he sat at his desk in darkness that wasn't quite absolute and he thought. How often had he heard that revenge was a dish best served cold? Where did that even come from? And who was the wiseass who had thought it up? Whoever it was, they were wrong. The very thought of revenge warmed him from head to toe. He didn't care so much about the disappearance of Aaron Hotchner. More subjects could be found and his work on Hotchner was really just something he did with the intent of garnering more favours for his future use.

But that little bastard of a doctor. Ah, that was different.

He would see Spencer Reid suffer. He couldn't forget that moment's pain as the needle had pierced his skin and then the flood of darkness as consciousness had left him, and he had no intention of letting go of that particular memory. Using it as a starting point for his plans of revenge had been, to put it lightly, useful. Once Reid was in his possession, the little backstabber would never see the light of day again, and he would wish - would wish so deeply - for the simplicity of pain.

After all, he'd made a career at this sort of thing. He was very, very useful because he did his job very, very well. With a satisfied smile, George Foyet pushed himself back from his desk. It was time to get to work.

\----

Mornings were sweet now. It was as if something unspoken had passed between them, but a lot had transpired without a word being spoken. After he'd found Spencer caught in the grip of that migraine, he'd found himself even more protective. Pointless, he knew - Spencer Reid was a grown man and could take care of himself, but these were odd circumstances for anyone who didn't have Aaron's background and even a little odd for him. He'd been trained for it, though, and Spencer certainly hadn't. The man was a doctor. What reason was there for a doctor to train in keeping his head down and waiting for any possible breach in cover to die down? Why would he know how to find and get to a safe house without rousing suspicion?

But his friend Jason Gideon. His mentor. Just how was it he knew so much about all this? It was right in one of those dark spots in his memory, or it felt like it was. Maybe it was just a natural forgetfulness. Not all details stayed perfect in his mind for all time. He didn't have that gift, even if he'd found Spencer did.

That had come from one of those sweet mornings he'd become fond of. He tended to wake up with Spencer in his arms now - or, now and then, him in Spencer's. It was odd to be beside someone taller than him. Six feet wasn't so uncommon, but any height over six was, and Spencer had at least an inch on him and still managed to curl up so small that his head often tucked below Aaron's chin.

Waking up to soft, warm breaths against his shoulder or his neck was enough to make his heart skip a beat. Something in it felt familiar, but he did his best not to think about that. He didn't want to think about the missing memories any more than he had to, especially not when there was something that felt warm and welcoming right in front of him. They talked when both of them were awake and they talked about themselves. Aaron told him things he'd not told anyone else, and he knew Spencer had done much the same with him.

He'd talked about how he could remember anything he read and sometimes he could remember everything he heard, but only if he imagined it as words on paper first - but he seldom remembered to do that. Spencer had told him about how, when he was very young, he'd seen his father burning his mother's bloody clothes and how he still wasn't sure if that was a dream or reality.

In return, Aaron had told him about how he'd been terrified of his father for much of his young life, how he'd often gone to the hospital with broken bones because he'd 'fallen down the stairs,' even if it was anything but. How he'd stepped between his father and mother, sometimes between his father and his little brother. Once he'd even said that was why he was terrified of becoming a father. He didn't want to even chance perpetuating the cycle. When he'd said that, Spencer had looked at him with understanding and told him that his mother was schizophrenic and the illness was genetic; he was terrified of having children, too.

Their topics in those warm moments of their mornings ranged far and wide with only a few topics that never came up. Aaron had noticed that Spencer never asked about his past. It was oddly welcome. There were still times where he tried to remember around those holes that weren't there anymore and caught flickers like single frames in a blank film reel. Tantalising but fleeting, impossible to make out. He sighed after one of those moments, his breath making Spencer's hair flutter while they laid so close together.

The young doctor stirred, muttering unintelligibly as he nestled himself closer and tightened his arm at Aaron's back. It was a much more pleasant diversion than the frustrating images behind Aaron's eyes. "Mmh. Mornin'," Spencer managed, yawning just after.

"Good morning. Sleep well?"

"Mm." He nodded, cheek brushing Aaron's chest. "You?"

"Yeah," Aaron chuckled. "I did. Even if I'm starting to think we should just fall asleep like this. Save us some trouble in the middle of the night."

"Too sleepy to think about that now. Wait 'til after breakfast."

He looked down at the top of Spencer's sleep-mussed hair. "Is that a hint for me to go cook?"

Shameless, Spencer nodded. "Mmhm."

"Okay, hint taken. Showering first, then food."

"'Kay."

Aaron climbed out of the bed, gently disentangling himself from Spencer's limbs, and picked out clothes to change into. As much as he'd taken it lightly, it was something he knew they needed to talk about. They'd been walking on an interesting line and Aaron knew the dangers. He only hoped that they weren't pitfalls the two of them were walking headlong into.

There was french toast on the table when Spencer came out of the bathroom and Aaron was sitting there sipping milk, having waited for his company before starting. The whole time he'd cooked, he'd wondered how to broach the subject. He'd buttered bread, stirred the egg mixture, reminded himself that he could wield a throwing knife as easily as he wielded the fork he was mixing with, that he was a dead shot, had sniper training, held information that was dangerous to more than a few world governments, and had been in this business since his graduation from college. He had faced off against SVR agents, terrorists, even Mossad from time to time, and while he had his scars, he was still standing there, alive and cooking breakfast, and the best way he could think of to bring up this one subject was bluntly.

That wasn't going to work. He'd been dishing the toast onto separate plates to the mental image of Spencer's deer-caught-in-headlights expression if he walked into the topic without at least some kind of tact. But how, exactly, did anyone - let alone a person in his situation - bring up the fact that he thought it was very possible that he was more than slightly attracted though he knew that there was a chance it was infatuation due to transference caused by his rescue? On both their parts?

There simply was no good way to say, "I may want to date you once we're out of this situation but it may also be a psychological reaction."

Except that was exactly what Spencer had just said while cutting off a corner of his toast.

Aaron felt every small bit of intelligence drain out of him at once. "What?"

"That's what you were talking about before wasn't it? About... our starting the nights differently?"

"Well, yes, but I was going to say it a little differently."

"So was I," Spencer admitted, prodding at the bite of toast he'd just cut off. "But I knew if I thought about it too much I'd talk myself out of saying anything. Because it is a possibility that it's transference. We're stuck in each other's company, not having any other influences than Gideon now and then--"

"And there's the entire dynamic where you first rescued me and now I'm the one with experience," Aaron agreed.

"But if we both know about the possible psychological causes, then maybe it's not a problem, right? I mean, we've kind of... We've had almost a month, right?"

Aaron watched, staying quiet while Spencer spoke. He could see the line of reasoning. A month, like Spencer had said and was saying. Reid had come to his room there in the lab, sat on the edge of his bed, talked to him, played board games with him, had brought him food. He'd had first dates that had went worse.

He was smiling as Spencer rambled, feeling a little bad for his attention having wandered, but he had a good reason. If they both knew, then maybe it really wasn't a problem. Aaron placed his hand over Spencer's on the table, interrupting the younger man in the middle of a word. His fingers curled around the longer, more slender, more elegant hand below his, and he drew Spencer to stand along with him. There was an owlish look to him. Eyes wide. Surprised. And yet, he looked hopeful.

It was perfect look for that moment, Aaron thought as he steadied Spencer's chin with the knuckle of one finger for the soft, slow kiss that followed. Bit by bit, he felt Reid relax, felt arms wrap around him, wrapped his own arms around the other's waist. It wasn't mindblowing. It wasn't fireworks. It was better. 

For the first time in far too long, Aaron felt warmth and comfort with someone else beside him. It was a piece fitting in place after having been missing for far too long. He smiled when he drew back. "I think it's going to be fine," he whispered, looking into eyes the same shade as good black label scotch.

If he'd ever doubted that Spencer was attractive, those doubts were gone now. With his eyes slightly dilated and lips ever so slightly swollen, Spencer Reid was a sight to behold and a temptation to sin. Aaron knew his smile was a little smug. He'd never been happier that he was already going to hell.


	14. Chapter 14

If they hadn't been in a damned basement, the days would've felt domestic. Aaron was hungry for sunlight and fresh air. The trip to the cabin, looking through the windows of the car, had been nothing but a tease. The walk he'd taken to the gas station had made him feel alive again, but now everything felt stale. It was the fourth week of being away from the world and except for the company, he wanted away from this damned cabin. He couldn't even imagine being stuck down here for two years. They'd barely made a dent in the food supply, but his palate was tired of everything being dried or preserved. For once, he actually felt like he could kill for a salad.

Or an apple that wasn't dehydrated.

And nobody wanted to know what he'd do for a strawberry.

But he chuckled under his breath. Now, he thought, there was one person who might want to know what he'd do for a strawberry, and that person was sitting in the corner of the couch with a cup of hot chocolate to one side, a rat on his lap, and a notebook on one knee.

The french toast had been cold by the time they'd gotten around to breakfast just a day or so ago, but it had been worth it. Now, they fell asleep leaning against each other instead of carefully on their separate sides of the bed. Now, he kissed Spencer good morning and it felt so perfectly natural that he didn't even think twice about it.

He thought twice about other things. More than twice. He thought about long legs and long fingers and long hair and the long walk he'd have to take to buy supplies with money that wasn't his if he wanted to do anything about those more and more frequent thoughts. There was just something lovely about the way he moved his hands. How he could write, fast and twitchy, with one hand, and how the other was smooth and gentle, occupying Boing's attention.

It was the most natural thing in the world to sit there, watch him, and remember all those moments he'd barely observed before. It seemed like Spencer could have a mesmerising grace when he didn't think to be nervous. When his body was left to simply function, he moved easily - so easily he put Aaron in mind of ballroom dancing - but when he remembered he was moving, it was as if he turned into a gangly teenager all over again. One way, he was charming. The other, he was haunting, and oh, he rather liked being haunted.

"You're starting to creep me out," Spencer said, Aaron having to blink to pull himself away from his admiration.

"Sorry. I can't really help staring." Aaron smiled. "You're beautiful."

A blush crept up onto Spencer's cheeks and Aaron's smile grew. "That's, uh. That's not really the most masculine choice of compliment."

"Here I'd think a doctor would be familiar with the concept of male beauty." He very intentionally raised his eyebrow. "Koinophilia, the natural appeal of regular features. Would you have preferred it if I'd said you were symmetrical? Or maybe some sort of mention of the golden ratio as it relates to--"

Spencer interrupted, smiling. "I already find you extremely attractive - can you please stop? How do you know all this stuff, anyway? Usually I'm the encyclopedia."

"I read books," he answered with a bit of a smirk before correcting - "No, seriously, I had a front as an art dealer for a while, so I looked into some of the background."

"And it led you to koinophilia and the golden ratio?"

"I knew about the golden ratio from high school, if that helps," Aaron chuckled. "We called it the Fibonacci sequence back then. And I have -- well, had, at least, a nautilus shell in my apartment."

But Spencer held up a hand, fingers splayed - a beautiful distraction that Aaron had to pull his attention away from. "You know that the measurements don't really fit the golden ratio, right?"

"It's something about the spiral, though, isn't it?"

"The logarithmic spiral," Spencer nodded, a gleam in his eyes. "You're right. You're..."

The tone of Reid's voice made Aaron smile. He stood and gathered both rat and notebook to gently put away, the cage securely fastened shut before he went back to the bed and sat beside the center of his attention. "You don't usually get people knowing this kind of thing, do you?"

Spencer laughed, seeming stunned. "Not at all. If I were to bring up natural fractals, most people would give me a confused look, but you're talking about logarithmic spirals and ... all because of a front as an art dealer?"

Aaron chuckled under his breath, reaching over to pick up Spencer's hands in his own, tracing the long fingers with his thumbs. "Something tells me this was a better way to flirt than informing you how beautiful you are."

"Flirting? You're-- Why are you flirting with me?"

"Why wouldn't I?" he countered, a warm smile on his face. "We talked about being attracted to each other."

The younger man only looked confused, brows drawn. "But doesn't that mean the flirtation... stops or something?"

"Not if you want to keep things going." Aaron reached for him, gathering him close and grateful that he didn't resist. A part of him wondered if he was pushing or if Reid was too confused by the concept of flirtation after the beginning of a relationship to bother protesting. "It makes sure the other person knows you're still interested and that you still find them attractive. And that you still think they're worth the effort."

"I hadn't ever thought about that," Spencer answered, seeming guilty - enough so that Aaron looked at him curiously.

"Is it a problem?"

"No, I just hadn't thought. I mean, it explains a few things in the past, but I don't have anything against it."

At last, Aaron felt like he could smile without guilt. "I'm glad, because I intend to keep flirting with you until you know exactly how much I like you."

Spencer blushed and Aaron couldn't resist kissing that blush as it coloured his cheeks, spreading back toward his ears. He shouldn't have been surprised just a moment later when Spencer squirmed a little closer and murmured, "You know, you... still don't have to. I can tell you like me."

Brushing Spencer's nose with his, Aaron smiled. "You have this amazing way of reading my mind, Doctor Reid..."

"Psychic powers aren't on my list of abilities."

Aaron felt a warm flush go through him at the tone of Spencer's voice, so warm and teasing. "What is on your list of abilities, then?" he asked, pulse picking up.

The smile Spencer gave him could only be considered wicked. "Well," he murmured, "that depends. Do you want show, or do you want tell?"

The next thing Aaron knew, he'd been pulled on top of Spencer who was kissing him deeply, tongue tracing his lips and stroking inside. Those long-fingered hands he'd been having very impure thoughts about were stroking down his back, over his hips, fingertips tracing the seam of his pants between his legs. His breath caught at the brush of fingers against his groin, how Spencer's hands were so gently parting his legs, and he was practically trembling when he could finally catch his breath. This was going to be a good day.

Clothes were tossed from the bed, leaving each of them with a beautiful amount of skin to touch. Spencer seemed to like the hair on his arms and legs and he loved how nearly hairless Spencer was in the same places. "We can't--"

"There are other things we can do," Spencer whispered against his lips, hands sliding down Aaron's back again. "Just trust me."

Those words were so striking that he caught himself looking into Spencer's eyes, amazed that he'd heard them at all, before he answered, "I do trust you."

His breath was taken away first by the deep, lingering kiss the next moment, then by the hand that reached down to stroke him. The other guided his hand down to stroke Spencer's length in the same rhythm. It made him feel young - as if this was the back seat of his old Mustang from high school, even if, if he'd tried this in high school, he'd still be nursing a broken nose.

He wasn't sure if it took minutes or hours, but when both of them came, breathless and panting, Aaron slumped onto the bed with the widest smile he'd worn in years. Hopefully - hopefully it was the first of many.

"We're going to have to wash the bedding," Spencer murmured, and Aaron chuckled.

"Tomorrow. Right now, I just want to lay here with you."

"Mm. I'm convinced."

Smiling, Aaron kissed him and gathered him close. Yes, tomorrow they would clean up. Right now, he had absolutely no reason to let go of Spencer Reid. For now, even if it was just for now, he had someone he could hold on to. That meant a surprising amount more than he could've imagined.

When morning came, the two of them were still, to Aaron's pleasure, curled together, arms and legs tangled. He stirred, kissing Spencer's temple before climbing from the bed and going into the bathroom. Even in the midst of this exile, he'd somehow found a fantastic reason to smile, and he was smiling as he showered. They were going to have a lot to talk about. Spencer was going to need to go somewhere safe, somewhere where Foyet couldn't find him, somewhere beyond revenge, and Aaron wanted to know if that somewhere would be anywhere near him.

He'd stepped out of the shower, slinging a towel around his hips, having decided that he'd bring that up today, when the lights went out. His nerves immediately came alive, the water droplets left on his skin going cold as ice. There was no sound. None. All these weeks, he'd gotten used to the background hum of the air systems, but that was gone. It was possible that it was a flaw in the solar electric system, but his instincts wouldn't let him believe that.

Aaron pulled the bathroom door open and stepped out, hands extended before him.

"Aaron?" Spencer's voice was more whimper than word, and immediately, he remembered the other's fear of the dark.

"Just a second," he whispered. "Keep your voice low."

There had to be a flashlight somewhere and he felt his way through drawer after drawer until he found a heavy MagLite. Pressing the button, it proved the batteries inside were good. At least there was one thing working right. He handed the light to Spencer. "Hold this. I'm going to get dressed - you get dressed next, all right?"

"Okay," Spencer nodded and Aaron touched his cheek warmly.

"It'll be all right." He only hoped he wasn't lying.


	15. Chapter 15

He'd almost forgotten he was afraid of the dark. For so long, he'd been fine. He'd not even had to think about it, but all it took was that sudden pitch blackness for him to remember and to hate himself for being frightened. His nerves had just started to settle, too. He'd just started to think that everything was really going to be okay when this happened and his anxiety struck in full force.

"Spencer." Aaron's voice broke him out of his thoughts and he was grateful. He needed to think about other things. After all, he'd managed to break someone out of the lab. He could manage in a dark place with a flashlight - especially since all they really needed to do was go upstairs.

"Yeah," he murmured, looking toward Aaron who had managed to get dressed in the dim light.

"You go get dressed, clean up if you can, and we'll figure out how to go from here. Take the flashlight with you."

"All right," he nodded, and climbed from the bed. He could do this, he told himself. He didn't have to be afraid because he'd done more difficult things. He'd managed to inject Foyet in the neck with sedatives.

The confidence that hit him, remembering that, almost made him laugh. Yeah. He could do this. He went into the bathroom and wetted a washcloth - no use in taking the time to shower - but just as he was rinsing off, the water stopped flowing.

Spencer frowned, turning both knobs, but there was no response - just a faint gurgling farther down the pipes. "Aaron? There's no water," he called, grabbing a towel to dry himself off.

No water. No electric, and that meant no air. Just as he was about to say something more, he went silent. He'd heard something. Something faint, just on the edge of his attention. Then it happened again.

A footstep.

Instantly, Spencer was relieved. Gideon. It had to be Gideon. Maybe he was doing maintenance and that was why everything had gone dead. With no way to contact them beforehand, he was doing it early in the morning to try to catch them before they woke up. It was just that they'd awakened too early.

But wouldn't he have told them the last time he was here if he had to show up and do maintenance?

Aaron was there a moment later, handing Spencer a set of clothes. "Here. Get dressed. I've packed your things," he murmured. "Be ready to go when I tell you to go."

"Go? Go where?"

"Out of sight. This doesn't feel... right."

He exhaled, hating to hear his own thoughts echoed in Aaron's words. "I know," he sighed.

"Boing is in your bag, in her cage. Both your bag and your suitcase are stowed behind the stairs. There are enough boxes to pull up around you that you should be able to hide there for hours if you need to."

"Hours-- Aaron, what-- Hours?" What was he going to be doing that would take hours?

"Trust me. Please."

"I do trust you. I just also want to help you. I'm not useless."

"I know. But I don't want you to get caught in any crossfire." When Aaron kissed his cheek, he caught himself trying to grab hold of him, to keep him close, and for a moment, Aaron let him. Aaron held him, and he let himself savor it for a few moments.

"Find me a weapon and I'll help you," he murmured.

Aaron's laugh was bitter. "I can't even find a weapon for myself down here, but you're the genius. I'll trust you to think of something."

Think of something. Right. He nodded and started to dress as the footsteps upstairs continued. They seemed almost lackadaisical. Careless. Definitely, Spencer thought, not Gideon. But they came, step by step, closer to the entrance to the basement. Whoever it was, they knew.

Aaron held the flashlight. It was heavy enough, Spencer knew, to be a decent weapon. Some officers were even trained in using them as weapons, but that left him with nothing. His mind went through a quick inventory of everything in the basement. Nothing in the shelves was useful as it was mostly food and gluttony wasn't a fast way to defend yourself. It was when he started thinking through the rest of the space that the idea struck him and, in the light of the flashlight, he hurried over to the laundry closet.

"What are you doing?" Aaron asked and Spencer shook his head.

"Just trust me."

"You're the genius."

He worked quickly in the hint of light he got from the flashlight, listening as the footsteps passed overhead. He was focused. So focused that he barely realised that someone besides Aaron was speaking when he heard, "You know, I can hear the two of you down there."

The voice sent chills down his spine.

Foyet.

\----

The cabin was exactly like he'd imagined it. Rustic, wooden, painstakingly organised. All of the electronics had been carefully hidden by cabinetry. It was a shame, he'd thought as he cut the wires, that so much of it would have to be redone. And even more of a shame that the plumbing would have to be fixed, but he had his reasons, and his reasons were sitting in the basement, like lambs waiting for the slaughter.

Here, in the cabin, the natural light was perfect. Golden with the sunrise. He had perfect vision as he wandered his way toward the closet, just like he'd been told. The closet floor was false, hiding a staircase and locking from inside. That was the only downside, but cutting the electric and water guaranteed they'd have to come out eventually. If there was a way for them not to asphyxiate below, they would still die of thirst. He smiled. This close to the end of his plan, he could afford to be patient.

They were talking below, muffled, but now and then full phrases came through. "Just trust me," he heard, followed by, "You're the genius."

He could hear his own smugness when he answered, "You know, I can hear the two of you down there."

Only silence answered him, which amused him further. "I cut off your air supply," he offered. "And your water. I could find some duct tape to seal this door - then how much oxygen would you have? How long could you breathe down there before you had to break the seal and come up? Some of these chairs up here are damned comfortable. I can wait as long as I have to."

But then he paused, smiling as an idea occurred to him. "Or maybe," he said, "I should just set fire to the roof and see how long it takes before the two of you become long pig. I know at least one of you gets that reference." He chuckled. "I'll give you three hours to make up your minds. Either you open this door or I set fire to the place."

That said, he settled onto the corner of the bed, checking his gun, ready to wait, and pleasantly surprised by the sound of the two locks on the hidden door unlocking. "...That was easier than I thought," he murmured, but stood, gun in hand, to pull the door open.

The light from the upstairs was minimal. It cast more shadows than it illuminated, and he frowned as he peered down the stairs and saw nothing.

They were hiding, then.

Smirking, he set foot on the topmost stair. "Come out, come out, wherever you are. I'll have you one way or another - all you're doing this way is making it hard on yourselves."

Mid-step there was a sharp pain in his ankle and he toppled, rolling down the stairs into a painful heap at the bottom. He'd made a mistake. He'd underestimated them, and now he could tell that at least one of his ankles was injured, but he still had his gun. He lifted it, aiming - aiming into nothing he could see clearly, which just made him snarl. "Bad choice. That will just make it worse for you."

Then a shadow moved and there was something arcing toward his head. He only barely dodged, quickly firing his gun and managing to miss Hotchner's shoulder. From there, it was a rain of fists and flashlight against him, one of Hotchner's hands pinning his wrist, but the muzzle of his gun was soon pressed against Hotchner's temple.

Leverage.

"I'd back off if I were you," he growled past the trickle of blood from his nose.

Hotchner was gritting his teeth and George couldn't help but smile. Oh how sweet victory felt. Half of a victory. "And now." He stood, keeping his gun against Hotchner's skin. "Now you get to tell me where your little friend is. Where Doctor Spencer Reid is hiding. He can't be far, with that phobia of his." His arm slid around Hotchner's throat. "Oh Spencer," he called, sing-songing the name with a smile. "Spen-cer! You have thirty seconds."

It took less than that. There was a pressure over his mouth and nose. The smell was overwhelming, making his throat burn, and he struggled against it - against the arms and legs that he felt around him.

Hotchner had hands on his wrist, pulling his gun aside as the shadows darkened even further. The last thought that went through his mind was a curse at Doctor Spencer Reid for managing to put him down again.

\----

Spencer stood over Foyet's body for a second time before turning the single glove inside-out over the rag he'd been holding, throwing it aside as a flood of footsteps thundered in the cabin overhead. They seemed to scatter, voices calling out one at a time, "Clear!"

It had been too easy, hiding in the shadows. He was skinny enough, narrow enough - hiding was what he was good at. All he'd needed was the opportunity, and Aaron had given him that. He was panting for breath when the first pair of feet came down the stairs and Hotchner pulled him aside. "It's them," Aaron said. "It's my department."

"Got 'em," called the blonde woman as she hurried down the stairs, "and Foyet's down!" Spencer quickly recognised her as the new woman who had come to work at the lab. He frowned as he thought about it. Just what did that mean?

"I shouldn't have doubted you, sir," she said, holstering her weapon. "Come on, let's get you two out of here."

"I didn't do it," Aaron answered, "but let us grab some stuff on the way."

She nodded but cautioned, "Make it quick. The sooner we get out of here, the better - especially with this-- He's still alive."

"Unlike you guys, I don't like killing people," Spencer said, stepping away from Foyet like the man had left a toxic puddle on the ground around him. He picked up his bags, Boing's cage held close to his hip. That fast, he was ready. Shaken, but ready. This was happening way too fast and his suspicion was growing. It looked like he wasn't going to be able to talk about it for a while, though.

He barely registered being ushered through the house, the sound of an electric drill being used in the closet behind him - what were they doing? Trapping Foyet in the basement? That didn't trouble him as much as it could.

But after he was tucked into the back of an SUV with darkly tinted windows, he saw something that did trouble him: a plume of smoke rising from the trees where Gideon's cabin had been. He didn't care that Foyet was in there, but that cabin had nothing to do with Foyet.

These were the people that Aaron worked with? These were the tactics they used?

What had he gotten swept up into?


	16. Chapter 16

The silence of the SUV felt like a defeat. Spencer sat staring out the window, and Aaron sat watching him. The man he'd been spending the last weeks with had completely changed in the last hour - even faster than that. It made his stomach ache to see it, but here, in the car, with two of his fellow officers in the front seat, he didn't dare say a word. He had never enjoyed working with others and though he was grateful for their help in getting the two of them out of there, he found himself missing the basement he'd been cursing the day before.

The way they'd dealt with Foyet may have been overkill, but he'd demonstrated his willingness to kill for whatever reason he'd decided on - and he'd come himself instead of sending agents. But the question remained in Aaron's mind: just how had he known where to find them?

It was that thought that pulled him away from staring at Spencer and staring out the window instead. He couldn't have tapped the phone line between the service station and the headquarters he'd called - there was no way for him to know. Unless he'd been very diligent in tracking them through car changes, he couldn't have had someone follow them. Even if he had, why would he have given them four weeks?

Unless it was to make them feel settled.

He kept thinking through possibilities until they pulled up to an airport a few hours later, where a plane was waiting for them on the tarmac. It was Spencer who broke the silence, then, by asking, "Just where are we going?"

"A safehouse in Colorado for a few days," answered the mustachioed man in the driver's seat. "We'll be arranging a place for you while you're there."

"Arranging--"

"You're going to be placed in WitSec," said the blonde sitting beside him, turning to face the two of them in the back. "A man like George Foyet has some powerful friends, and we want to make sure he doesn't come after you again."

"Am I going to get to ask anyone any questions?"

The older man looked at him in the rearview as Aaron watched the two of them, fighting off protective reactions. "What kind of questions?"

"The 'I saw both of you at the lab, why am I the one who had to break him out' kind of questions. You were there in a uniform," he said, pointing to the older man, "and you were the new hire in the labs." Spencer pointed to the younger blonde who at least had the grace to look guilty.

"You... stepped into the middle of a plan we were trying to put together. But things changed at the last minute--"

"Things that got me ambushed and beat up and my mentor's cabin burned to the ground?"

"Our methods," the older man broke in, "are our methods. We're not telling you that you have to like our methods, but they get the job done."

"Your methods mean I'm never going to get to see my family again," Spencer bit back and, in that moment, Aaron was proud of him. Anger gave him courage, and he was fantastic at standing up to the people he was angry at - but then Aaron knew that he'd be getting his share soon enough.

The SUV stopped and Aaron followed after Spencer climbed out. What they intended was obvious. The plane was there on the tarmac, the only one there, and had its stairs lowered. His bag over one shoulder, his suitcase in hand, Spencer went to the stairs, not allowing anyone to touch him.

It was like waking up.

This was how his life worked. He was used to hiding out, to making his way out, to these bursts of activity and, sometimes, violence. The last weeks, especially those with Spencer, were more dream than reality. An oasis. As he climbed the stairs into the plane, he wondered if it was a place he'd ever be able to regain.

As the jet took off, they told him about securing his apartment, packing everything up, how they had it in storage, and how they'd done the same for Doctor Reid's things as well. There, in the tan interior of the jet, it all seemed so ridiculously normal. Easy to nod at, to agree with, to let roll over him and past him like a breeze. Except for that odd feeling - a feeling he pushed aside - that someone was missing.

He blamed it on the drug and sat back in his seat instead, watching the others fall into pastimes like cards or books or reading up on upcoming missions. He missed boardgames - games that were now on fire, or maybe ash, alongside the body of George Foyet.

Then it hit him in a flash - frames from a film reel. Foyet's slimy smile that bared his teeth, a scalpel, and a man whose face he couldn't quite make out. A memory. Altered, maybe? Or was it just forgotten and coming back in the only way it could? With a hiss and a frown, he clenched his teeth. He'd forever doubt his memory now. Always wonder if it was natural for him to think this way or if it had changed thanks to that damn drug.

"Problems, Aaron?"

Glancing up, he met the gaze of the man who was one of his oldest friends, even if they rarely worked together by their own choice.

"Reid said he saw you at the lab."

"An excuse to drag out my old military uniform," Dave answered with a chuckle. "We were a few weeks away from being able to get you out ourselves, but I've gotta hand it to the kid - he did good."

"Dave, why did you put him into the middle of this? Seriously."

"The truth?" Exhaling and turning his coffee around in his hand, Dave sat back in his seat across from Aaron, as if deciding whether or not he wanted to get into this or not. But in the end, he spoke quietly, "Truth is, one of our agents made a mistake. At a glance, she mistook him for the new girl. Only saw the height and the hair, I guess. After he found you in that damned place, we had to alter the plans to include him. Lucky Foyet took the bait."

"Psychopathic behavior. No reason to believe one of the younger researchers wouldn't do whatever he was told." He saw the reasoning. He just didn't like it. "You know what he was doing, Dave?"

When the other man shook his head, he continued. "Doctor Reid was working on a drug to try to help PTSD sufferers. A way to target memories and blunt the emotional response."

"Damned impressive."

"More than a little. Is there a possibility we can get him to a lab where he can keep working on it?"

"That rat of his hold the secret or something?"

Glancing over, Aaron saw Spencer giving Boing a chocolate chip through the cage bars. He didn't blame him in the least. It had to be getting stifling in that bag. "No. That's just another rescue like me."

There was a certain quirk to Dave's eyebrows before he answered. "Lend your name to it and I'll see what I can do."

"You've got it," he agreed, and then he was left alone.

He'd been foolish to hope and this just made it clear. With his life the way it was, he couldn't inflict that on Spencer. Maybe, though, he could give the young doctor a real lab, a place he could trust, to work on his wonder drug. He hoped that'd be enough, even as he was sure it wouldn't be.

Except for the occasional nod to one of the other officers as they passed, he was silent the whole way to Colorado. There were too many justifications to make to himself to be anything but silent and there were too many memories to try to pursue. There was something important. He knew that now, he was sure of it, but he just couldn't figure out what it was. Something that was just beyond the grasp of his memory, whether it was the drug that had done it or not.

Only four of them got off the plane in Colorado: himself, Spencer, Dave, and the new girl, whose name he remembered but only barely. They'd only been introduced the once, after all, but she looked like an Ashley. That made it easier. "Assignments?" he asked, referring to the others on the plane, and Dave nodded.

"Yeah. Emily's taken over your post in Russia. Luckily she can pass as your sister, but they'll want to see you again as soon as possible."

"Give me about a week."

"Sounds good," Dave agreed. "C'mon, we've got a sedan over there."

A week. A few days in Colorado with Spencer, then the rest of them... where? It wasn't just a matter of picking up the pieces now. The pieces were falling into his hands half-assembled.

Did he even want the old picture of his life?

The safe house appeared around a curve of the road - a gorgeous chalet in all wood with the smoke from a fireplace already wafting from the chimney. A beautiful picture and definitely a step up from Gideon's basement, Aaron thought bitterly. Having a real bed now felt like a hollow victory, but it was one of two real victories he could claim. The other was dead in a burned-out basement in Virginia. Climbing out of the sedan and into the mountain air, he was still deciding if it was worth it.


	17. Chapter 17

The place was beautiful. Even in his bad mood - which he couldn't quite pin down to anger or upset or uncertainty or bitterness - Spencer had to admit that much. He never would've had the chance to stay in a place like this without all this having happened, but he was sure he'd trade it for the chance to be back in his apartment, safe, without the risk of people coming to kill him hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles.

Their meal had been great. He'd not been very social, but for him, that wasn't so unusual. Now he was in his room. A private room with a bed the size of a small country, a bathroom that he'd already availed himself of, soaking in the tub that could've doubled as a swimming pool -- all right, that, he'd admit, was an exaggeration. He'd still had to bend his knees, but not nearly as much as he usually did.

But now he was in that bedroom, feeling like the bead in a can of spray paint. He only had a few days here and what was he supposed to do? He'd been taken out of his element the moment people with guns had appeared en masse. Or maybe even earlier, when he'd drugged Foyet, a man he'd once respected and aspired to be like. His viewpoint had changed so quickly.

Maybe worse was how he'd seen Aaron talking to the other agents - or were they agents? This was one thing he'd never had to know before. He'd spoken to them so easily, used terminology that sounded like it came straight out of a James Bond movie, and Spencer had been standing there, waiting to hear a hint of something said to him.

He felt ridiculous. He wasn't a teenager following his crush around, offering to do homework and praying for one pleasant word from his mouth, but somehow, this was leaving him with that feeling. That old, helpless, needy feeling that he'd always hated in himself. He'd felt it all through school, hating dealing with his father, wanting attention from someone. Getting to college, having all the professors practically fight to have him in their classes, and then having Gideon take him under his wing...

That was it. He wanted to talk to Gideon, to tell him he was sorry for what had happened. And if he had a chance, now was the time to do it. Before they took him wherever they'd take him for witness protection. Even with Foyet dead, he knew there was a chance someone besides Foyet, someone under Foyet's orders, could be looking for him.

Sneaking around the house felt just as juvenile as he'd felt hoping for Aaron's attention, but he didn't want anyone to spot what he was doing. They'd probably tell him he wasn't allowed to call - and he'd rather get forgiveness than permission. Finding a phone wasn't too hard, and from there, he went through the usual trouble: hiding the caller ID and dialing Gideon's private line that he always picked up. It only took two rings.

"Hello?"

"Gideon." It was too good to hear a familiar voice.

"Spencer! Spencer, are you okay? I was informed today that the cabin burned - an electrical fault--"

"I'm fine," he interrupted, "I promise. It was... It was some of Hotchner's people. They came in and got us out and Foyet was there. He tried to kill us - the two of us, I mean, and I guess they decided to burn the cabin down. To make it look like he was a home invader or something." He still didn't approve, even if he understood more now. Spencer turned, resting against the desk where the phone - an old-fashioned looking thing in a wooden box - was sitting, slightly frowning. Gideon wasn't answering. Had he said something-- or had the phone cut off? "Hello? Gideon?"

Gideon sounded rushed when he answered, "I'm here."

"I'm really sorry they.. they burned down your cabin. It was really nice, and I know that took you a long time to build up..."

"You didn't make them do it - it's okay, Spencer. Where are you now?"

"God, I don't know. Somewhere in Colorado, but I'm not going to be here for long. They're taking me somewhere else in a few days."

"Call me when you get there. Let me know you're all right."

He wanted to. Gideon was the only one he could call, he knew, because he didn't care what happened to his father, and his mother... Well, she'd probably just write it off as a delusion. Yet, he was going to be in witness protection. "I don't know if I can. They're considering it witness protection - that means if I call, they'll just move me again..."

"If you can," Gideon amended and it made Spencer feel better.

"Maybe I'll manage something. I... I don't want to get out of touch with everyone. You're probably the only one I'll be able to talk to, if I can talk to anyone."

There was a smile in his mentor's voice. "We'll find a way. I promise."

"Thanks." Then, as much as he didn't want to, he sighed, "I guess I should go. I'll get in touch with you when I can."

"I'll hold you to it."

He was chuckling as he said, "Bye, Gideon," and hung up the phone. It had been a short conversation, but he felt worlds better. At least he mattered to someone.

"I hope you at least thought to block caller ID," came a voice from the doorway and Spencer turned, startled but soon grateful that all he saw there was Aaron.

"Scare me into a heart attack," he muttered. "Yes, I thought to block caller ID. I'm not an idiot."

"You're idiot enough to make a call in protective custody. But at least you made it before they moved you." Aaron stepped into the darkened room, turning on a lamp on the way. Spencer watched him, noting that he moved like someone who'd been in the safehouse before. Somehow, that wasn't surprising.

"Yeah, I thought of that, too," he said, sitting in one of the antique-looking wingback chairs that he'd nearly tripped over on the way in. The whole place looked rich, which he guess made sense. If people were going to have to hide out, they should hide out in comfort. This was a safehouse, after all - not a bunker like Gideon's. He took in a deep breath before taking the risk of confrontation. "So. Having fun meeting up with all your old friends?"

Aaron sat on the edge of the desk beside the phone. "For one thing, they aren't friends. They're coworkers. And for another, I don't think this can be counted as a fun situation." There was an edge to his words. Spencer knew that was his fault.

"You're right," he said, "it's not." Not for either one of them, it appeared. "Sorry."

"Nothing to apologise for. I just wanted to tell you that Dave and I have been working with a friend from the State Department. We've got a place for you - Netherlands. A city called Enschede. You'll be working at the University of Twente. There are some accounts set up for you to live on for a while - until you get settled in with your job."

"Neth-- Aaron, I don't know how to speak Dutch--"

"You're a fast learner," Aaron said with a shake of his head. "You'll pick it up. I have faith in you."

"And what about you?" His bad mood had lightened so quickly but now it was falling again. It was that foolish hope ending. Everything that had built over the past weeks was being knocked out from under him.

Aaron, he noticed, couldn't even meet his eyes. "I'm taking a week or so off before I go back to the assignment that I'd been working on. They heard about my arrest, and I need to prove to them that I'm no turncoat. The assignment was supposed to be over, but with this happening so quickly, I've got pieces to pick up."

"That easy."

"What?"

"Weeks. Weeks between us, and you just... You and your friend just push me into the Netherlands and go back to work? Did you somehow just manage to become my first casual fuck?"

At least, Spencer thought, he looked hurt. Good. He was supposed to look hurt. He wasn't sadistic enough to enjoy that set of his eyelids, just so, or how the usual hard light in his eyes faded, but it was at least proof that something he said got through.

"That wasn't my intent. Not at all - Spencer..."

"What was your intent, Aaron?" He couldn't believe he was doing this. It was a first. Usually he was the one being grilled or bitten at, but he'd made a decision while he was on the jet. Yes, these people were more badass than him. They were trained spies, most likely, and they knew how to use guns, and they could probably kill people with their little fingers, but he wasn't going to be pushed aside by them. He wasn't going to be yet another victim, and his bravery, it seemed, was paying off.

The other man raked a hand through his hair and Spencer kept his eyes on him, watching every move he made until he finally answered. "You didn't want anything to do with any of us. I figured that meant me, too."

"I was upset," he agreed, "but you're presuming an awful lot, thinking I don't want anything to do with you. I guess the real question is whether you'll have time to do anything with me, with all of your talk about going back to work."

With a sigh, Aaron nodded. "You're right. I will be busy. This is... what I do. This is my life."

Still, there was something in his tone that made Spencer doubt. "So. So, what, you'd get to see me on the equivalent of weekends?"

"Vacations. We get those now and then," he said with a wry smile that even got a chuckle out of Spencer. 

He stood, taking a few steps forward until he was leaning against the desk beside Aaron. "Vacations. Weekends. A day here and there... Would it be enough?"

"I don't know," Aaron admitted, "but I think it's worth a try."

"Yeah," he murmured. "I think it is." Relieved, Spencer leaned over to kiss him, an arm wrapping around his waist. "Stay with me tonight. Please."

Aaron was smiling against his lips. "Gladly."

Spencer smiled in return.


	18. Chapter 18

The plane ride was long but not long enough. Already, he was missing Spencer - but even as he thought the name, he corrected himself. The new name he'd chosen was Richard Garrett and he'd said it had something to do with Star Trek, but Aaron couldn't quite remember what.

That was the name on the house Spencer would be living in there in Enschede, and on his new ID, on the paperwork for his new job - even as the login on the laptop he'd been given, complete with software to help him learn Dutch. They'd seen to it that he could provide for himself while he was stuck overseas.

Spencer was going by boat. He'd liked that idea better than going by plane, and Aaron wouldn't gainsay him. It was, in a way, good that there was only one other officer on the jet. After the three fantastic days they'd been able to claim, their small version of a honeymoon period, he needed the time to get his mind back into the line of work he'd left behind. It would be months before he'd be able to get to the Netherlands and speak with Spencer again, but he knew he'd see him eventually.

Right now, he needed to drill himself on names, dates, places - the files he'd left behind after working years on the assignment in Russia. He hadn't forgotten, but having the information convenient to hand would be better than stuttering in the face of a possible interrogation.

He remembered Makariy and his distrust, but he also remembered how, once the man had trusted him, there had been nights of drinking kvass and funny stories and easy laughter. He remembered Inessa and how she'd tried to flirt with him but he'd carefully turned her aside. She'd become more understanding after that and had been a good team member. One by one, Aaron put names to their faces in the photos: Taras, Ilia, Rada.

"Are you ready to be Anton Korotkii again?"

Aaron looked up from the files to see Emily there, and he nodded. "As ready as I can be. And you, Liliya?"

"Until we came to get you, I'd been Liliya for a good few weeks. I think I can fall back into it pretty easily." She pushed a cup of coffee over toward him and he nodded his thanks. Something was still annoying him, though, and he opened the file.

"Are we missing a photo?" he asked, paging through the ones he'd identified.

"Let me see."

He offered the pages and she took them, looking through quickly and shaking her head. "No. No, this is everyone in the unit. Why?"

"If this is everyone, then who's Haley? Why am I remembering a Haley?"

The last thing he expected was the stricken look in Emily's eyes.

"What? Who is she?"

"I-- I don't know, Aaron, but I've heard you say the name before. That's..." She shook her head. "I remember you were angry when you talked about her, but that's all."

"Then who would know?" His voice was demanding and he regretted it immediately, but he wouldn't apologise. "Who can I ask?"

"Maybe Dave?" she suggested. "You can call him when we land."

When they landed. No, when they landed, he'd have to be in the mind of Operative Anton Korotkii, not Aaron Hotchner. That meant he'd have to put it off until he finished his assurances. "We'll see," he murmured, leaving the question unanswered.

If Haley wasn't in this unit, then who was she? Why was he remembering her now? And why was he angry about her, whoever she was?

The question haunted him through the plane landing, through weathering his jet lag, and even through his first meeting with Operative Makariy Balakirev. He'd been welcomed with a healthy clasp of his arm, a thump of his shoulder, and an evening's toast to his health over a vodka the likes of which could only be found in Russia. The alcohol nearly made him cough but he had the grace to turn it into a laugh. "America has softened me," he told Makariy, who thumped him on the back.

"Even their prisons, it seems." The man's eyes showed worry, though, and, with a hand on Aaron's - Anton's - shoulder, he guided him to the side. "You've changed, Anton. There is a tiredness in you that wasn't there before."

"You're very astute," Aaron answered. "You're right. I am tired."

"And distracted. Your eyes show it - something disturbs you."

"Just old memories," he murmured, and Makariy nodded his sympathy.

"Prison isn't pleasant for any. It seems they gave you worse than some. But better than others. Come - drink. Make new memories."

As good advice as any. Aaron nodded and went to do exactly that, drinking and toasting and eating until past sunset. He bedded down on one of the many cots, everyone far too drunk to even think about being in a car, and he slept.

He dreamed of Spencer. He dreamed of that wide, warm smile. Of arms and legs wrapping around him. But then the dreams turned dark. There was blood. There was Foyet's feral smile, the shine of a scalpel. There was sandy brown hair that was close to blonde - but without any of the curl of Spencer's. Smooth, shining, straight. Blue eyes going cloudy--

And then there was a man. Unprepossessing, mild, dark haired, dark-eyed. He recognised him immediately, and sat up from his sleep, immediately awake and nearly snarling. That hole in his memory - he was almost sure it was gone, but there was nothing he could do about what he'd remembered. He could only hope he wasn't right.

\----

Spencer liked Enschede. He'd had time, months now, to get used to thinking of himself as Richard Garrett - a name he'd chosen in honour of his favourite Enterprise captain - and he'd even mostly learned Dutch. He still wasn't good at some of the pronunciations, but the people he worked with were understanding and actually helped instead of making fun of him.

During the day, he saw cases in the university's hospital, and of the evenings, he was able to work with his drug, do his experiments, and record results. It had led to something of a breakthrough that, as yet, he wasn't able to publicise, but it was still a work in progress.

With his little house so close, he could ride his bike home every day with a sense of accomplishment. He was doing good work in a place where he knew his medications would eventually be used for the right reasons. And of the weekends, he could take a few methods of public transportation up to the lovely village of Geithoorn. He felt good in the Netherlands, unlike how he'd felt for so long in the US. It was enough to make him seriously think about immigrating.

Yet, for evening after evening, now, he caught himself looking at the phone. He missed Aaron, but he knew better than to even try calling him. He didn't know the number, for one thing, and for another, if he called any of the others, they'd think it was an emergency and loneliness wasn't an emergency. He also knew better than to call Gideon. They'd relocate him and the last thing he wanted was to be relocated.

So he came up with an idea. An expensive idea, but he shelled out the money readily. It was easy enough to hide a few phone cards in his groceries. Just as easy to hide a disposable cell phone, too. And then, on one of his weekend trips to Giethoorn, he placed a call.

"Spencer?"

"How did you know?" he said, smiling toward the phone. He was making new friends - or he thought he was - but to hear the sound of a familiar voice helped him feel at peace.

"You're the only one that calls this line. Where's this number from, anyway?"

"I can't tell you that. I'm in Witness Protection."

"Spencer."

He knew that tone. A gentle kind of chiding that always made him feel like he was around eight years old.

"Who would I tell?" Gideon asked and Spencer sighed. Gideon was good at keeping secrets. And there was a part of him that hoped Gideon could come see him.

"I--... Gideon," he said quietly, "look, I won't tell you exactly, but I will tell you that I'm... Well, you can look up the number, so you'll be able to figure out what country I'm in. And I'll tell you that I'm working at a hospital - a big hospital. And I took a name that... Well, you know how I love Star Trek."

"I think I can figure it out from there," Gideon agreed, and Spencer smiled, biting his lower lip. Maybe he'd get to see Gideon again. He hoped so. He had a lot to make up for, after all, with how Aaron's people had burned down his cabin.

"I'll probably get in trouble for calling you."

"Don't worry about it, Spencer. I'm sure everything will be fine."

That was always so easy to believe when Gideon said it, so Spencer nodded even though Gideon couldn't see him. "Thanks. Look, I'm almost out of minutes, this is international, so I need to--"

"Go ahead," Gideon cut in. "I'll try to see you soon."

"Thank you. Thank you, Gideon. ...You'd like it here. I'll show you this neat little village-- But I should go. Bye."

He dropped the phone into a waste bin as he walked past. Yes, he would be in trouble, but who would ever track him down to Gideon? Gideon didn't trust anyone. So even with that call, he was sure. Everything really would be fine. He was safe. Now all he had to do was hope that Aaron could get the time to visit soon.

That would make everything perfect.

Walking along one of the Giethoorn canals, Spencer could only smile. Yeah. Everything was going to be fine. His mentor and the man of his dreams - in time, he'd have them both. What more could he ask for?


	19. Chapter 19

"Where is he?"

"Gideon," Aaron said, his tone turning the name into an epithet. "Jason Gideon." He'd returned to their headquarters from Russia, leaving Emily in charge back with the operatives at the border of Russia and the Ukraine. This was more important. He'd spent hours going over files, looking up names, filling the holes in his memory.

The memories themselves still felt alien. He knew, now, that he'd had a wife. That her name had been Haley Brooks, that they'd had a son named Jack. That the two of them had been collateral damage in a particularly nasty case involving the Troubles in Ireland. He knew it was true. It fit with what few memory fragments he had managed to piece together, but there was no emotion attached to them anymore. He remembered their deaths the same way he remembered what he'd eaten yesterday and he knew the loss didn't weigh as heavily as it should. That was his wife, his child. He should be outraged at their deaths, but it felt like nothing to do more than shrug over. 

Anger boiled in him, though, over what he now knew to be the truth. Over all of the records that had been in the back of his mind but had slipped away in favour of information that had become more pertinent over the years.

He'd gone by a different name then. Jason Donovan, CIA agent, and close friend of Peter Rhea - also known as George Foyet. The two of them had been sent out on many cases as doctor and psychologist, getting into the minds of enemies and then getting into their bodies, extracting information by brutal means. Their histories had been intertwined from college, where the two of them were noted to be close friends from the moment they met, but it only seemed to make them more efficient.

All Aaron cared about now was that somehow, Spencer Reid was on both their radars. The doctor trusted one of them and had helped take down the other. But with Foyet dead, what, exactly, would Gideon do?

Agent Lynch typed hard, the keyboard clicking furiously. "He posted on his page at the university that he's taking a few weeks of vacation," he said. "Nothing more detailed than that. Checking credit card trails now, but if he used cash--"

"If he used cash, we're screwed," Aaron muttered. "I know." And the man was too canny to leave a trail. "Check purchases made by Spencer Reid."

"Reid? In the Netherlands, sir?"

"I know we're keeping eyes on him. I need to know if he contacted Gideon."

Lynch seemed to know what he was getting at. "Let me see if I can get into some security footage. I don't have any card traces on him, either."

So Spencer was buying in cash if he was buying at all. Aaron was proud of him and wishing he could smack him in the back of the head at the same time. He paced, restless, knowing that if anything, he should be booking himself onto the first flight he could find into the Netherlands. If Gideon was going anywhere, he was surely going there, and he wanted to see Spencer besides - but he wanted to be armed with even more reason, and even more proof, before dethroning someone Spencer saw as a mentor.

It was likely only a matter of a minute or so before Lynch spoke again, but to Aaron, it seemed like hours. "Nothing on record, sir, but it looks like the store he frequents did see a slight uptick in sales of international calling cards."

That was all the proof Aaron needed. "Put that in the file and email it to me," he said and walked out of the room on the way to Enschede.

\----

He spent his days happy, going from home to work and work to home, speaking the language better and better with the passage of time. He'd been there for months - going on four, now, and while he missed Aaron and Gideon, he knew that between Aaron's job (whatever it was, he didn't really want to know) and Gideon's teaching, they couldn't get away.

Spencer kept journals instead. He wrote about things he wished Gideon could see, or wished that Aaron could do with him. He had daydreams about walking alongside the canals in Giethoorn with Aaron, or biking with him along the trails. More than that, he was in Europe. There were trains everywhere, and so many countries so close together -- he wanted to see everything. After all, like Eddie Izzard said, Europe was where the history was. He could finally see so many places firsthand, and he wanted to do the silly tourist thing with Aaron and Gideon.

It was childish, perhaps, but it was the subject of most of his thoughts when he wasn't at the hospital. His patients there, of course, deserved his utmost attention, and he'd not practiced real medicine on real patients in a very long time. It was refreshing, even if he still had to remember, from time to time, to answer to Doctor Garrett instead of Doctor Reid.

This day had gone well. No deaths, simple cases in the clinic, and as he biked home, he was looking forward to spending an evening with a nice hot chocolate and some time spent with Boing. Her new cage was glorious but she still liked having the chance to explore. He was smiling as he unlocked his front door, his bicycle locked in place nearby.

There weren't words for how much he liked his little house. One bedroom, one bathroom, one sitting room-slash-dining room, and the kitchen - it was tiny, but it was perfect. He went into the kitchen first thing, making his hot chocolate and putting a frozen dinner into the oven.

His hand was on the temperature knob before he heard it. Soft, easy to miss. But what came after wasn't subtle at all. It was, instead, hard and painful against the back of his head and he was forced to his knees before an all-too-familiar voice murmured, "This time, you aren't going to have the opportunity to drug me, Doctor Reid."

His blood ran cold through his veins. "F-foyet," he whispered, struggling to think past the pain. What had hit him? He didn't dare glance up to look, but he felt something warm sliding through his hair, something liquid, and he knew the moment before the droplets began to strike the tile floor what it was.

Blood.

"Isn't it wonderful to be remembered?" his attacker purred. "Now get up - we've got quite a distance to go and we can't have you late for the boat."

Anger flared. "How did you survive?" he hissed. "You were unconscious, and they set the house on fire--"

"Not quite unconscious, Spencer. No, not quite; you didn't do your job as well as you thought you did. I was awake enough to get out. But thanks to your friend Aaron," the name sounded foul in Foyet's mouth, "not without some damage. Now get up, hands behind your back, or I'll do more than just hit you with my gun."

There was one question answered. Sick to his stomach, Spencer stood and put his hands behind his back. Foyet taped them in place, quick and efficient with his movements, and guided him outside to a car that was hidden not too far away. It was an easy walk across his back yard with Foyet glancing in all directions for anyone watching them. Spencer found himself too scared to do more than walk. If he screamed, he could've been shot and, while he was a lot of things, suicidal wasn't on the list.

The Director - a part of Spencer's mind still thought of him that way - lifted the back seat of the sedan and pushed him into it, taping his feet together once he was curled into the cramped area, and then tied a blindfold across his eyes and a gag across his mouth. The last thing he saw was Foyet smiling at him smugly with an ugly, translucent scar crawling up to his jaw from beneath the collar of his shirt. No, he hadn't been unscathed after all.

And the last thing he thought as he curled himself even tighter than the space required was a prayer that someone would find Boing and feed her, water her, before she died.

Moments later, the car was in motion and Spencer was trying to ignore his tears.

\----

There was a chill in Aaron's blood as he looked at the drops of blood leading from the kitchen to the outdoors. He hadn't even bothered to ask about Spencer's attendance at the hospital. The bicycle chained out front had said it all. He'd stepped inside armed with his gun and his tablet only to find the house empty except for the stench of rotting food from the oven and a rat on her back feet, trying to reach through the bars on her cage.

Aaron looked at the rodent, one he'd come to enjoy the company of, and frowned. There was plenty of water still, but the food was dangerously low. That meant it had been days - maybe even as long as a week - since Spencer was taken. Feeding Boing was the first thing he took care of and she set to eating hungrily before he checked the house once more. Unfortunately all he had to go on was the trail of blood he'd spotted immediately upon entering the house.

Gideon had him. It had to be Gideon. But that left the puzzle of why he'd struck Spencer. With Spencer's trust intact, all he would've had to do was ask. Still, it left the question of where, exactly, Gideon had taken him.

His phone rang, pulling him out of his thoughts, and he answered it brusquely. "Hotchner."

"Sir, we've got movements on one of the aliases you told me to watch out for," Lynch said.

"Which? Where?"

"Russian harbor, sir. Peter Rhea."

Impossible. 

"Send someone here to see to Reid's pet rat." He hung up the phone and left, spinning up gravel from the driveway as he went. He was almost to the Dortmund airport when he picked up his second phone and began to speak, careful about his language and accent.

"Liliya," he said when Emily picked up. "I will need your help."

"Anything, brother," she answered in perfect Russian. He didn't know the woman well, but he trusted her. This case was quickly involving all of them. Aaron told her what was happening and promised to call with updates as he got them.

The only tickets he could get to St. Petersburg required changes of planes, but he didn't care. It was still faster than driving. He left his guns carefully hidden in his car, knowing he would be armed again when he landed.

Russian harbor, Lynch had said. St. Petersburg had to be Gideon's destination. No matter the alias, there was no way it was Foyet. Foyet died. Foyet had been killed in that damned cabin in Virginia.

Never before had a flight seemed so interminable. He didn't dare take a single drink to alleviate his boredom. He needed his senses sharp for when he landed and landing couldn't come soon enough. His phone rang the moment he turned it on and he spoke swiftly as Lynch gave him the information the hours of the flight had gleaned.

When Emily - still in her guise as Liliya - met him at the doors to the airport with Makariy, he was far from surprised. Both of them looked grim and he knew if they looked so angry, he looked worse.

The meeting took place in a room with a map of the city spread on a table before them. "I know you all are doing this as a favour to me," Aaron said as he glared at the map's surface. "And I appreciate it. I'm not sure what we're walking into, but I have no doubt we can handle it."

Makariy pushed a pair of handguns across the table to him, soon followed by a pair of knives. "Now we can," he said. "Tell us what has happened."

He did. He told them it was the man who had helped him in the American prison, the man who had helped him get free again, and his so-called friends had taken him hostage for what he'd done, and now they were holding him there in the city. "My information places him here, in this building." He tapped the map at a certain building.

Makariy looked at it closely. "That building is abandoned. Has been for years."

"That makes it perfect to hold someone in as long as they do it quietly," Emily added. "Makes it hard to approach without making too much noise."

"We are sure this is one man holding another?"

"One." But there was a bit of doubt so he admitted, "At most two."

"Two." Makariy nodded. "We will be four against two, then. I will scout entrances then meet you here." A place two blocks away, he indicated on the map. "From there, we will move in. Any rules?"

"Try to apprehend instead of kill. But if you can't..." Aaron shook his head. "I wouldn't mourn."

"Understood. Let's go."

Aaron strapped on his weaponry, sliding one of the knives down the side of his boot while the other was strapped to his thigh. It gave him a certainty he hadn't realised he'd been lacking until then. The four of them - himself, Emily, Makariy, and Rada - stepped out onto the street in long coats that hid their personal armories. Makariy slipped away like a shadow. The rest of them spoke with a faked joviality in their voices. Three friends out for an evening together.

They were trained very, very well indeed.

\----

Spencer laid where he'd been placed, sliding in and out of consciousness. He was sure he'd seen the sun set at least four times, but there was no way for him to be sure. Part of the time, he was certain he was hallucinating because he was sure he'd seen Gideon at Foyet's side, but that certainty had slid away as time had passed. Gideon was there. He'd dosed him with some of the drugs Foyet had supplied. They'd put the PIC line into his arm, making an easy path for the drug to reach his body, bandaged it in place as if it was there for a less malevolent purpose, and since then, he'd been kept in a fog.

Now, he seemed to finally be waking from it, becoming aware of his surroundings - and he wished he wasn't. The place looked like it was ready to fall in. There was a constant chill, and he knew he was far from any of the places he'd thought of as home. Laying there on the table, he blinked a long, drugged blink and when he opened his eyes, Gideon stood there with that gentle smile. "Hello, Spencer," he said, his tone warm and friendly, and Spencer wondered if he could summon up enough strength to spit in his face.

"Gideon. Where are we?" he asked, his voice a hoarse croak.

"Russia. Saint Petersburg. It's too bad you can't go outside. Some of the most amazing events of Russian history happened out there." Never did that insipid smile leave Gideon's face and for the first time, Spencer found himself hating it.

"You could let me go," Spencer whispered. "You could let me up. We could go see it all. I've missed you - we could go be tourists..."

But Gideon shook his head, his smile taking on a sad cast. "George wants you tied up like you are."

"George... Gideon, George wants to hurt me."

"I know," Gideon said, just that simply. "You shouldn't have upset him, Spencer. He could've helped you so much if you'd just done what he said. He could've helped you like he helped me."

"He helped you?" The lump of fear in Spencer's stomach grew.

"Of course he did - he really knows what he's doing. And he could've helped you, too - I told him how smart you were, and what you were working on, and he really wanted to help you make all those wonderful drugs you'd thought up, but then you had to go and let that guy go..."

"Gideon..." Spencer swallowed tightly, watching as Gideon's expression turned genuinely mournful. "Gideon, you helped me get him out."

"I didn't know you were bothering George that much when you did it. But he told me - and now... Well, now I have to help him." He picked up a needle, fixing it into the end of the line at Spencer's inner elbow. "This is your fault. You shouldn't have upset George."

"How long have you known him, Gideon?"

"Oh, since college," the older man answered as he pressed down the plunger. "I thought I'd lose my mind without him, but he showed me what I could do as long as he was around. But now you need to go back to sleep. We'll wake you up to eat later."

"Gideon-- Gideon, please..." But his words started to slur and the world darkened. If this was how Aaron had felt, he would never stop being grateful he'd gotten him out.


	20. Chapter 20

"Three entrances," Makariy said as they settled back into the alleyway. "North, east, west, largest door to the west. I couldn't see in, but there were dim lights inside. Two west, one each north and east, and we'll have all of it covered. Mostly empty, I think. Go in, clear rooms, locate them, and get him out."

Aaron nodded. It was exactly the plan he'd figured on. "I'll take north. Rada, east. Makariy, Liliya, west?"

Each of them nodded in turn. "All right." Makariy went for the door. "Drinks tomorrow, to as many as make it out."

There was an answer from each of them - a sort of collective grim smile, but then they were on their way to the building.

Aaron knew what was likely inside. There was the possibility that Spencer was already dead. There was the possibility that he was drugged. There was the possibility that he wouldn't even be there, but with Makariy having seen lights, Aaron felt sure.

At the side of the building, they split up. Aaron went to the north where he found a simple metal door, locked but with a lock that was easily picked. He closed it behind him, though, to dissuade any curious onlookers.

The building had, at one point, been a factory. It still had the scent of machine oil drifting through the air. There were lights, as Makariy had said, but they were all upstairs. The scant light from the windows would have to do until he got closer, Aaron decided. Turning on the light on his gun would only draw attention. He listened closely, standing still at the bottom of the nearest staircase and he was rewarded. There, the second floor. Two voices speaking to one another. Low. He felt like he recognised them both and it sent a jolt of cold through him.

How. How had Foyet survived.

Clenching his jaw, Aaron set his foot on the lowest step, starting the long, careful, slow journey upstairs.

Halfway up, he heard a near-silent door opening and knew that with the conversation upstairs, there was no way they could've heard it, but it brought him more certainty. He had backup.

The building, though old, was well-made enough that the steps didn't creak as he climbed. He breathed slowly, not even letting his breath make too much noise. Damn it, he wanted this to be over now, but he couldn't rush.

Aaron had just set foot on the upper floor when he heard it - shouts, scuffling, and a body hitting the floor hard. He went from a careful walk into a sprint, light on his gun clicking into brightness. He dodged fallen boards, slides of paper that would've made him lose his footing, and rounding a corner, he found himself looking into a room that he never thought he'd see. Spencer was laid out on a table in a cruel approximation of a hospital bed, one of his sleeves ripped off, showing an intravenous line dripping with who knew what. Drug or blood or mix, it had left a discoloured puddle on the floor to one side. And beside that puddle was Rada, unconscious, and Gideon bleeding out beside her, a gun still in his hand.

And still standing was Foyet, an arm around Emily's throat, gun against her temple. "Drop the gun, Hotchner, or I shoot."

"You would take that risk? Get yourself into that kind of trouble?" he asked, finger alongside the trigger.

"I kill everyone in this room..." Foyet shrugged. "Trouble disappears. Now drop it."

Emily's eyes told him not to, and he went with what she said, keeping his gun trained on Foyet.

Foyet's gun dropped. There was a gunshot, and Emily screamed as she collapsed, a bullet hole through her hip. "I warned you," Foyet said. "I might not be trained on these things like you, but at this distance..." He shrugged, seemingly carefree. "How can I miss?

"Now. If you won't listen for her sake, maybe you'll listen for his."

He took aim again and Aaron couldn't miss just where his gun was aimed. Emily would bleed out soon if they weren't careful, and if Foyet squeezed the trigger one more time, the bullet would go through Spencer's unconscious skull.

Aaron withdrew his finger from the trigger, held up his hands, and crouched, placing the gun on the floor. Looking up, he barely caught the look of rage flash onto Foyet's face before three guns barked and Foyet fell, one hole neatly through his head, another through his chest.

Blood dripped onto the floor from the table where Spencer was still laying. His already-pale skin was growing paler.

Everything seemed more of a murmur than true sound. Makariy was speaking from behind him, informing emergency personnel that there were agents down, and where to find them. Of course it was Makariy. The only one of them that hadn't been accounted for.

He was sitting outside when next he realised his surroundings, a light being shone into his eyes as he assured the EMTs that he was fine. Bodies were being loaded into vehicles not far away, some to the hospital, others to the morgue. Makariy had quickly constructed a story of what had happened, but that was part of his job. After all, he was SVR. Covering things up was what they did.

As he stood up, he knew. This was the end. This was all he could handle. He was through. He and Makariy were the only two to walk instead of being on wheels with lights flashing. "A drink, Anton?" the other man offered, but Aaron shook his head.

"No, my friend. I have arrangements to make."

"Understood. Then this is goodbye."

"I'm afraid so." He looked over at the man, giving him a faint smile. "Take care of Liliya."

"Always. All the best, Anton." Makariy clasped Aaron's shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze before drifting away, and that quickly, Aaron was left alone on the streets of St. Petersburg.

\----

There was sunlight over the grass which was a vivid shade of green. The balding man by the grave, Aaron thought, must have been Spencer's father. The slightly-haggard blonde woman clutching a handkerchief and not even trying to hide her tears - that was his mother. The two of them were holding on to each other, and Aaron thought he saw the beginnings of old love rekindled there. Good. At least one good thing had to come out of all this.

As the pastor spoke, people came forward and tossed rose after rose, all of them white, onto the casket that had been lowered into its final resting place. Aaron's soon joined their number before he turned from the grave and walked away, over to the black Crown Victoria he'd driven to the grave site though he hadn't attended the funeral. He would've felt like a fraud doing it. These people didn't know how he'd known their son, their friend. There were questions he didn't want to answer. Leaving now was best for all of them.

He climbed into the driver's seat, pulling off his sunglasses and leaning back into the sun-warmed seat. His back ached and he looked forward to sleeping in his own bed as soon as he could. He had a desk job to look forward to and that, now, was fine with him.

The grave site, not so far away, was beginning to empty, and Aaron looked back at it for a short moment before his passenger finally spoke up.

"I'm going to miss them."

"I know."

Reaching over, Aaron squeezed Spencer's hand. He was still on pain medication for the gunshot wound to his knee and there was a chance he'd never again walk without a limp, but he was already on crutches instead of in a wheelchair and Aaron had promised he'd help him with his physical therapy.

He'd have time for that now.

"At least you won't lose touch with Penny," he offered.

"Of course I won't. You hired her."

Aaron gave him a smile, leaning over to kiss his cheek, and Spencer gave him a weak smile in return before reaching over to hug him. It wasn't what either of them had hoped for, but now they had a future. A future where neither of them would get shot at again. "I know you'll miss them," Aaron whispered. "I know you'll think about them every day, but both of us are safer in Enschede."

"And I do like it there," he agreed, but there was still something longing in his eyes as he looked back toward the few people that remained beside Spencer Reid's grave.

He stroked Spencer's hand with his thumb. "It'll get easier," he promised softly before pulling on his seatbelt. They had a flight to catch to the other side of the ocean.

\----

Coming home was a joy. Spencer often arrived to find that Aaron had gotten there before him, their tiny white house redolent with the scents of his cooking. It had taken him time to get over leaving the United States completely behind, but now, Richard Spencer Garrett was well established in the university hospital. He came home each day and kissed the cheek of one Michael Aaron Smith, fed their two pet rats, Boing and Plink, and then sat down to a wonderful meal the likes of which he'd not even imagined.

They spent their weekends in Geithoorn, walking along the canals and enjoying the sounds of a town without roads. Together, they'd visited Amsterdam, especially the Rijksmuseum, and Aaron had made sure they visited the Keukenhof Gardens with all of their flowers.

But that day, walking into the house was a curiosity. He stepped inside to find the scent of his favourite food, tandoori chicken, the dishes all carefully placed on the dining table, lit by candlelight. Aaron was standing there, smiling to him happily, and Spencer looked at him with an amazed smile.

"Aaron... What's the occasion?"

"It's been a year since all this started," he said. "You're walking without even your cane. Boing has outlived most lab rat projections. And I have a very important question to ask."

Spencer's stomach fluttered as Aaron went down on one knee, presenting him with a narrow ring with the faintest of designs inscribed on it, and Spencer recognised it immediately. The chemical diagram of phenethylamine - the chemical of love.

"Will you marry me?"

"Only if you stand up, because I can't kneel down to kiss you down there."

Laughing, Aaron stood and Spencer gathered him close, kissing him wholeheartedly and squeezing his shoulders. He'd gotten used to a lot of changes. Adjusting to the feeling of a ring on his finger would be the easiest thing he'd ever done.


End file.
